


astra inclinant, sed non obligant

by houfukuseisaku



Series: virtus migrat in vitium [1]
Category: Evillious Chronicles
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It of Sorts, Multi, Suicide Attempt, Two Writers Playing The Worst Game Of Telephone Ever
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-24 06:52:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 67,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13805790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/houfukuseisaku/pseuds/houfukuseisaku
Summary: The stars incline us, they do not bind us. With the rebirthday of a new world and the replaying of an old one, things change. Maybe not by much, but even a small deviation in the unwritten script can lead to a new, better conclusion.





	1. omnia vincit amor

**Author's Note:**

> *cracks knuckles* i havent written for evillious in a long time and i dont know the canon-accuracy of this fic but *trumpet noises* adam/eve/meta is great and i couldnt keep my mind off of it
> 
> are they ooc? probably. most likely. but dammit, they're happy and that's all i really care about yknow. anyway i might continue this for some other characters/arcs but for now enjoy the moonlits + meta

It’s a dark, dark night. The moon hangs high up in the black sky, gently illuminating the forest. In the middle of this forest, there is a small, quaint cottage. The fire burning bright in the hearth radiates warm light and comfort through the windows, in stark contrast to the cold breeze whispering through the trees.

Adam sighs, a bittersweet smile playing on his lips. Eve’s staring out the window again, staring at nothing in particular like how she often does lately, her expression tinged with wistfulness and sorrow.

“Hey,” Adam greets, bringing over two bowls and setting one on the table in front of Eve.

“Hey,” Eve replies sweetly, wrapping her fingers around the bowl and relishing the heat. “Porridge again?”

Adam cringes, but takes a seat beside his wife nonetheless. “Sorry. We’re running out of supplies, so I’m trying to use them sparingly. I hope you’ll like it.”

“Don’t be silly, dear.” Giving her husband a playful swat, Eve brings a spoonful to her lips and takes a sip, smiling in approval. “I love it, it tastes just right. You’re a great cook.”

“Not as good as you.” Adam chuckles, relieved. “If you want, we could go out later to gather some fruits?”

Eve hums, directing her gaze out the window. It’s a dark night, but the moonlight is more than bright enough to guide them through the forest and back home. And the idea of some fresh, sweet fruits is tempting.

Still. The wind whispers through the trees, and Eve can hear its song. A message of some sort, directed to her.

_Stay. Wait. Something is going to happen. It’s best if you stay here for now._

“Maybe not tonight, dear.” Turning her attention back to the meal, Eve closes her eyes. “It feels like… something is going to happen. Something terrible will happen if I— if we go into the forest. It’s best if we stay home tonight.”

Adam’s puzzled, knowing how Eve loves venturing into the forest to gather herbs and flowers and other things, but he lets the subject drop. The two of them enjoy their meal together, and prepare to enjoy another quiet night.

* * *

It’s a dark, _dark_ night, and despite the bright moonlight, Meta finds herself running through a dark, _dark_ corner of the forest.

She’s running, running as hard and as fast as she can, breaths coming in short pants and gasps, yet still the people hot on her heels are steadily gaining on her. Meta hugs her children close to her chest and runs, runs, runs through the path of red flowers, a fugitive.

Flashes of memories bubble up to the surface of the mind, no matter how hard she tries to shake them off. No, no! She won’t let her precious babies end up like her, as playthings and puppets and pawns in someone else’s grand scheme of things.

But the people chasing her are getting closer, and the forest seems like it’s getting dark, darker, _yet darker_ , and the twins are starting to fidget and cry in her arms—

There, a light! A house!

Hope renewed, Meta redoubles her effort and runs as hard and as fast as she can. It might be someone’s home, the owner might not let her in, she might be caught before she reaches it, but she’s close, so close to safety and another day of freedom and a chance for her children to live a better, happier life.

But someone, something catches on her dress, causing her to stumble forward and lose her footing. Meta falls, and thankfully has the presence of mind to tumble onto her side so as to not harm her children, but that’s it, it’s the end, they’ve caught her and _it’s the end_ and her children will—

Meta lets out a wail that rises into a scream as magic crackles and suffuses the world around her, bursting forth in the form of rustling branches and thorny vines.

* * *

A loud rumble cuts the quiet night in two.

“Did you hear that?!” Eve jumps up from her seat in front of the fireplace, immediately tense.

“Sounds like thunder.” Adam answers, though he worriedly notes how Eve seems to be trembling. “Maybe it will rain soon.”

“It doesn’t feel like it’s going to rain,” Eve hisses, though she accepts Adam encircling her in a comforting hug. “And that didn’t sound like just thunder. It sounds like something’s in pain!”

“It might be a bear. Someone could be out hunting and they came across a bear.”

“They’ll kill the bear!” Gasping in horror, Eve looks up at Adam with wild, terrified eyes. “They’re going to shoot it and kill it! Adam, we have to go help!”

“It’s a _bear_ ,” Adam replies helplessly, but obediently follows along as Eve throws on a cloak in a hurry and holds another one out to him.

Eve always did love animals, he reasons, and always hated to see one hurt. They could probably save the bear from the hunters, and if the situation turns out more dangerous than they thought, say, if the bear were to turn on them…

Well, Eve isn’t known as the Witch of Nemu for nothing.

“Hurry, hurry!” Eve calls out, and the two of them leave the warmth of their home for the dark, dark forest.

* * *

Meta swims in and out of consciousness. She catches glimpses of the gentle moonlight streaming through the forest ceiling, and catches fragments of sentences from the people standing above her; witch, demon, twins of God, demon, Project Ma, evil forest, demon, Seth, millennium tree god, demon, demon, demon…

She catches a gasp and wonders where she’s heard that voice before, she remembers it screaming with agony and misery and lunacy and with a sentiment that she now understands intimately as a mother’s love and loss.

She catches a glimpse of blue and green and fragments of a spell being cast before the scent of ozone permeates her senses and overwhelms everything else.

And then, finally, with its fangs and claws, the darkness catches her.

When she comes to, she’s lying in a comfortable bed and covered with a warm blanket. There’s a fire crackling nearby and the smell of food makes her mouth water. But the twins aren’t in her reach and that’s what makes her eyes crack wide open as she jolts upward in a panic.

 _My babies! Where are my babies…?_ Meta mouths, but no voice comes out of her dry throat and parched lips. A pair of strong hands gently try to ease her back down but she stubbornly remains upright, eyes wild and searching, until another pair of hands, dainty and soft, delivers her precious babies into her outstretched arms.

“Shh, shh, they’re here, they’re right here.” Someone softly assures her as she takes the twins and holds them close, trembling and overcome with pure relief. “Don’t worry, don’t worry. Poor dear.”

“She might have a fever,” another voice interjects. One of the strong hands from earlier finds its way against her forehead, and Meta flinches away. The voice might be right; the hand feels ice cold on her skin. “Her temperature’s pretty high. Do we have medicine?”

“I’m not sure… but there are still some herbs in the pantry. You could make some tea with them.”

“Alright.”

It takes her another moment or two to fully calm down, but the tension and adrenaline bleeds out of Meta at last and leaves her sagging against the bed’s headboard in fatigue.

 _Thank you_ , she wants to say, but the words don’t come and her voice continues to elude her as she finally makes out just who it is who saved her.

Eve Zvezda. The subject of the first Project Ma. And, if she recalls correctly the screaming and hysteria and despair, the one who lost her children.

* * *

Eve’s more than a little confused when the woman in front of her suddenly pulls back and hunches over, almost as if she were trying to hide her children from view.

“Are you hurt?” Eve asks, leaning closer to give the woman a once-over, but her frown deepens just a little bit more when she shakes her head and weakly tries to push her away. “Don’t worry, dear, I’m not going to hurt you…”

“Here,” Adam comes over and offers the woman a mug of steaming hot tea, but again she shakes her head, her brown hair falling over her eyes and obscuring them. “Come on now, it’s good for you.”

“What’s wrong? Tell us, maybe we can help,” Pleading, Eve reaches over to brush the strands of hair away from the woman’s eyes and brushing her fingers over her cheeks. “Are… are you crying?”

“Please…” the woman croaks, shaking off Eve’s gentle caress and drawing in a shuddering breath. “Please, don’t take my children from me.”

“What?” Setting the mug down on the bedside table, Adam takes a seat next to his wife and stares at the strange woman with concern. “What are you saying? We won’t do that!”

“Adam,” Eve murmurs, her face paling as recognition flickers in her eyes. “I think… I think I know who she is…”

“Please,” the woman repeats, this time more desperately, her face feverish and delirious. “Please, Eve, _please_ don’t take my children from me.”

“Eve…?” Adam asks, his worried gaze passing between the two women. “Who is she?”

“…Meta. The Witch of Merrigod, Meta Salmhofer.” And with that, Eve falls silent, at a loss for words.

At the mention of her name and title, the woman breaks down into tears. “Please!” She begs, shaking like a leaf in the wind, “Please don’t send me back to Levianta! Don’t let them take my children! You must know how that feels, right?! So please, _please_ , I’ll do anything! _Anything!_ ”

“Wait, calm down,” Adam says, wringing his hands, unsure how to handle the situation rapidly spiralling out of control. “We, we’re not going to, _calm down_ , Eve, help me out here… Eve?”

“Huh?” Startled, Eve turns to face her husband. “W-what is it, Adam?”

Adam says nothing, only reaching out to brush Eve’s cheek— and the wetness trailing down it. Eve says nothing, only gazing at Adam with a lost, forlorn look while tears bead in the corners of her eyes.

The two of them say nothing as a heavy quiet descends upon the small, quaint home, broken only by the muffled sobs of the fugitive in their bed.

* * *

The next few hours are awkward and more than a little unpleasant. Meta accepts the cup of tea and a bowl of porridge and a bottle of warm milk for her children, but after the meal she seats herself in Eve’s favourite spot next to the window and tries to make herself as small and unnoticeable as possible.

Which is quite difficult, considering the two babies gurgling and cooing in her embrace.

Adam and Eve find themselves in front of the fireplace once again, conversing in hushed tones and, every once in a while, sending glances over to the wanted criminal taking shelter in their home.

“We should send her back,” Adam mutters, idly combing his fingers through Eve’s soft hair. “The senate might send more people after her, and besides, we’re running out of food. We won’t have enough for all three… all five of us.”

“We can’t send her back,” Eve whispers, shooting her husband a disapproving look. “Look at her! She’s shaken up so badly… and I don’t want them to take away her children either.”

“She’s a criminal, Eve!”

“She’s a _mother_ , Adam!” Eve snaps, looking up at Adam with fiery eyes. “And you saw what happened back there, right? The trees themselves were protecting her, we had to _pry her out of the roots_! And I heard the song of the forest. This must be what it was telling me about! This was meant to be; the forest god must have _meant this to be_.”

“The forest god? Eve, are you out of your mind?!” Adam snaps back, and immediately clams up, regretting his words.

Eve takes a step back, crosses her arms over her chest, and looms over Adam with a dark, dark expression clouding her face. “Maybe I did lose my mind,” she seethes, furious, “along with my children. But I still have you, and I still have this forest, and our love. She has nothing left but her children, Adam. I don’t want her to lose that too. _I know how that feels._ ”

“Eve…” Adam sighs, relenting. “Alright. Say we let her stay. What will happen when we run out of supplies? Food? And we don’t exactly have a way to earn money here. We’ll all starve, and we’ll all _die_. Including her children.”

The two watch each other in stony silence, both unwilling to cede their point, before the noise of a chair scraping across the floor grabs their attention.

“Um…” Meta mumbles, taking a hesitant step towards them. “I could… I could steal things from the nearest town. I’m very, uh, good at it. It’ll be easy. No one will notice, surely.”

Adam pinches the bridge of his nose, huffing in exasperation. “No. No stealing anything, no crime, we don’t need more trouble on our doorstep. I could live with less of that, thanks.”

But Eve regards Meta with a strange look in her eyes, one that Meta matches with a fearful, yet determined glare. After a moment or two of deliberation, Eve asks, “Can you tend to a garden?”

Meta’s face falls, her eyes turning guiltily downwards. “No, I don’t, I don’t know how… sorry, Zvezda.”

Eve smiles, and reaches out to take one of Meta’s hands in her own. “It’s Moonlit now, Salmhofer. And don’t worry,” she says softly, and Meta is struck by the tenderness in her voice, “I can teach you.”

* * *

A week later, and Meta finds herself toiling away in the garden of the Moonlit residence. But there’s a smile on her face and a spring in her step as she carefully waters the various plants and cuts away the unwanted weeds.

“Eve!” She cheerfully calls out, holding the shears in one hand as she cups the other around her mouth. “Come quick, it’s starting to flower!”

“Alright, alright, I’m coming.” Eve laughs, stepping out into the garden and marvelling at the blooming greenery. “Woah, how pretty. Maybe we can make our own jam out of it? We could sell some and earn enough money for bread.”

“What fruit is it?” Meta asks, tracing a finger over the delicate petals. “I’ve seen something like this before, but I don’t know the name…”

“Pome, I think? It's a plant that naturally grows in this forest.” Eve shrugs, going over the rest of the plants with a critical eye. Good, everything’s still healthy and green. Meta might not have known anything about gardening before, but she’s quick to pick up on things, Eve gives her that.

“Salmhofer!” Adam yells from within the house. “The twins are crying again!”

“Coming, coming!” Meta shouts back, then gives Eve a sheepish grin. “I’m sorry, I have to…”

“Don’t worry, I’ll take it from here.” Eve nods, taking the shears from Meta’s hands. “Take care of them.”

“Thank you.” Meta says, turning around on her heel and all but sprinting back into the house.

Adam’s standing by the crib he and Eve had built for the babies, cradling them both in his arms and looking positively _harassed_. The boy is noisily crying his eyes out, and while the girl seems to be amusing herself by tugging on strands of blue hair, there are angry tears beading in the corners of her eyes.

“Little brats.” Adam murmurs affectionately, passing the boy into Meta’s hands and trying to untangle the girl’s fist from his bangs. “Come now, your mother’s here. You can let go of the big bad blue man now.”

Meta chidingly clicks her tongue, carefully pulling the girl off of Adam and pressing their cheeks together. The twins quickly calm down in her embrace, tiny satisfied smiles on their faces. After a moment, Meta looks at Adam with an uncertain smile.

“Thanks.” She murmurs, apologetic. She still doesn’t know how to act around the runaway ex-scientist, still doesn’t know what he thinks of her. And the look on his face isn’t exactly trusting, but there’s no animosity to it either.

Meta doesn’t know what to think.

“No problem.” Adam replies, and the two awkwardly stand there for a while, avoiding eye contact with each other, until Adam blurts out, “Salmhofer, you hate Seth, right?”

Meta’s eyebrows rise in confusion, but she answers his question without hesitation and more than a little vitriol. “So much. _So much._ He’s a _snake_.”

“Yeah,” Adam laughs, the tenseness in his shoulders bleeding away, “Yeah, alright. Me too. I hate him too.”

And he leans over to plant a chaste kiss on her forehead.

“And anyone who hates Twiright is alright in my book.” Adam chuckles, giving Meta a lopsided grin as he turns away, heading for the kitchen. “Thanks for helping Eve with the garden, Meta.”

And Meta is once against struck by the warmth in his voice and the fondness in his eyes and the lingering feeling of his lips on her forehead.

* * *

On a day where Adam’s in the forest chopping down trees for more firewood, Meta and Eve find themselves in front of the fireplace, enjoying each other’s quiet company, while the twin babies sleep quietly in their crib.

Meta has her head lying on Eve’s lap, but her shoulders are hunched up in obvious discomfort. Eve spends a few more moments brushing her hair with her fingers, before sighing and letting up, drawing her hands away.

“You don’t like this, don’t you?” Eve asks quietly. It’s not an accusation, far from it, but Meta guiltily looks away nonetheless.

“Sorry,” Meta murmurs, shaking her head. “I’m just… still not used to this, I guess… the physical affection, I mean.”

“Poor dear,” Eve says sadly, leaning down to plant a chaste kiss on Meta’s forehead. “You must’ve been so lonely.”

“I _was_ ,” Eve’s heart pangs at the crack in Meta’s voice, and she nuzzles into Meta’s hand when she reaches up to cup her cheek. “But now I have you two. And I still have my children.”

A darkness grips at Eve’s heart at the mention of children, an ugly and rotten feeling, and she tries to ignore it, push it down and smother it, but it must have shown on her face, because Meta fixes her with a look of pity and something else, something she can’t figure out.

“Eve?” Meta whispers.

“It’s nothing, don’t worry.” Eve bites out, but she can’t help it, can’t help the sorrow taking form in her eyes as she thinks about her children and her loss, and the budding jealousy taking root in her core.

“Eve.” Meta repeats, more insistently this time.

“What?” Maybe she’s a bit harsh, maybe the venom in her voice catches Meta off guard, but then both Meta’s hands are caressing her face, gently wiping away the trailing tears with the pads of her thumbs.

“ _Eve_ ,” Meta breathes, slow and cautious. “Have you ever thought about it?”

“About what?”

“Taking my children from me.”

Eve’s taken aback, the wind knocked out of her, but she’s more shocked by the emotion rushing out of her like a burst dam, spilling out from her lips before she has a chance to take them back and lock them away.

“Yes,” she grounds out, simmering with barely-concealed rage. “Yes, and I _hate_ it. I want to steal away your babies so bad, _so bad_. I love them so much, and it hurts _so much_ because they’re not _mine_ , they’re yours, and they only love _you_ and _I hate that_. I’m a terrible person, Meta.”

“Would you kill me to have them?” Meta asks.

“Yes,” Eve answers, resigned to the malice in her heart. “I probably would.”

“You love them that much?”

“I do. More than anything, I want to have children to love and to be loved by. The twins are my only chance at that.”

“Then that’s enough.” Meta reaches up to pull her arms around Eve and pull her down until their faces nearly touch. “I love my children. I want them to be loved, to give them every ounce of love that I never had the chance to get. If you love them that much, then that's good enough for me.”

“Meta,” Eve stammers, a red heat rising to her cheeks. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Meta smiles, closing her eyes, “That if one day, I die by your hand, I’ll forgive you. Because I love my children, and you love my children just as much, and you’ll take care of them for me, won’t you? You’ll love them as much as I do, and you’ll give them the love that I want to.”

The tears start to flow. Eve shakes in Meta’s embrace, drowned in a torrent of emotions both familiar and not.

“And maybe, Eve,” Meta slips a hand behind Eve’s head, opens her eyes just a tiny little bit, and Eve lets out a crumbling, pained noise at the tenderness in her eyes. “Maybe I love _you_ , too.”

And then their lips meet, and the shadows in Eve’s heart loosen their grasp on her just a tiny little bit. Maybe not by much, never completely, but for now, it’s enough.

* * *

It’s a dark, dark night, but the three of them are snuggling together in bed, warm and content and _happy_. The fireplace has burned down to embers, but the light of the full moon and the stars sparkling in the sky sends soft, gentle light streaming through the windows.

“Oh, before I forget… what are their names?” Adam asks, stifling a yawn and inclining his head to the two babies sleeping in their cot. “I’ve never thought to ask before.”

“Oh, yeah. What are their names?” Eve asks, her voice laced with sleep as she cuddles close to Meta’s side and plays with her hair. “It’s been almost a month since you came here, but I keep forgetting to ask you.”

Meta squirms a little in their embrace, and the two move aside a bit to give her some space. Prolonged physical contact still has her feeling ill, but it’s slowly getting better and she’s slowly learning to accept their affection, Adam’s strong hands and Eve’s soft touch.

“Names, huh…” Meta muses, feeling the pink of embarrassment settle on the tips of her ears. “I haven’t really thought about that before. I guess they don’t have names yet.”

“What?” Eve laughs, earning a flustered whine from the woman beside her. “You haven’t given them names, really?”

“Well then, why don’t we name them now?” Adam suggests, giving Meta’s hand a squeeze. “No time like the present.”

Meta takes in a deep breath, but nothing really comes to mind. “I don’t know.” She mumbles, stretching a hand up and reaching for nothing, as if the empty air could provide her an answer and all she has to do is grab it. "I can't think of anything."

“Hm.” Eve hums, propping herself up on her elbows. “For the boy… what about Hansel? I think it suits him.”

“Then,” Adam adds, pushing himself up to lean his chin on one hand. “It’s only fair that the girl's name is Gretel.”

“Hansel and Gretel.” Meta says, closing her eyes and pulling her outstretched hand back to rest it on her chest. “That sounds nice. I like it. Hansel and Gretel Moonlit.”

She cracks her eyes half-open to see looks of surprise on Adam and Eve’s faces. Sitting up, Meta reaches for their hands and intertwines them with her own.

“Hansel and Gretel and Meta Moonlit.” Meta murmurs, shy happiness illuminating her face. “If you’ll have me…?”

Adam and Eve look at each other in wonder, and then back at Meta. And then the three of them collapse together in an embrace filled with tears and laughter and three words whispered over and over, three words Meta’s never truly heard in her life, never for her, up until now.

Three words that fill her heart with joy and peace and finally, finally, a sense of belonging.

Finally, finally, she’s loved.


	2. deus ex machina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude, and a prelude of things to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :^)
> 
> i write fluff ONCE and instantly my brain goes "haha, how cute! let's Never do that again"
> 
> hoo boy, here's the point where it stops being a simple "fix-it" and starts being a complete alternate universe! something i am all too fond of! i love aus ! ! ! (but dont really expect consistent updates or consistency in general, this is mostly a write-on-the-edge-of-my-seat kinda thing)
> 
> also thanks to my beta for being the most patient person EVER im sorry you had to listen to me ramble about ec and im sorry i made you beta this fic when you know next to nothing about ec in the first place lmao

Levianta’s four ladies have been chosen. The deadly game of survival for the sake of becoming Ma has begun.

Elluka shivers, clutching at her elbow. The hand holding the utility knife— more a last-ditch effort at self-defence than any killing intention, really— threatens to drop the blade with its trembling. The temple’s open-air architecture leaves its inhabitants exposed to Levianta’s strong winds, and the nights are turning longer and colder by the day.

She sweeps her eyes over the scene in front of her, taking in the other three women standing within the temple. Ly has her mouth set in a smug smirk, while Milky’s painted lips are curled in a lecherous leer. But Elluka’s focus isn’t on them— sky blue dead set on earthen brown.

Contrary to her expectations, Irina looks lost and forlorn, the red-haired mage gazing at Elluka with something strange, something… unfamiliarly familiar, glimmering in her brown eyes.

Not the expression of pure hatred she suddenly wishes is there instead.

“So,” Ly drawls, regarding the others with a haughty expression. “This is it, huh. A runt of a mage, an ex-priestess in disgrace, and a lowly cheap whore? I can’t believe any of you managed to become candidates for Project Ma.”

“Excuse me?!” Drawing herself up to her full height, Milky spits out with a voice full of venom. “Watch your mouth, bitch. You were chosen only because your family kept throwing money at the senate~!”

The two women bristle at each other’s comments, obviously incensed. Elluka listens to their barbed exchange quietly, but keeps her eyes on Irina’s.

Something is wrong.

Somehow, this entire scene feels all-too-familiar… but the sense of déjà vu passes as quickly as it came, and she’s left with nothing but an empty ache and the phantom pain of a knife in her heart.

Abruptly, Irina turns on her heel and runs out of the temple, having caught Elluka’s piercing gaze. The three remaining women watch her go with blank faces, before Milky and Ly break out in barely-muffled snickers.

“What a scaredy-cat,” Ly mutters with a toss of her head, her smirk turning into a wide grin that bares her teeth. “Can’t even handle facing us here, let alone in battle.”

“Coward,” Milky simpers, hiding a wicked smile behind perfectly manicured nails. “It’s probably the fact that she’ll probably be killed by her own sister-in-law… isn’t that right, Chirclatia~?”

Elluka wants to agree, or to disagree, or something, but the ache of emptiness intensifies further and she lets out a soft gasp, bringing her hands to her chest and nearly impaling herself on her own blade.

Instead, the knife clatters uselessly to the ground, echoed by the laughter of Ly and Milky.

“Weakling!” Scowling, Milky stabs the tip of her flamberge into the polished floor and crosses her arms with a huff. “It’s no fun if they just give up… I don’t get any thrills this way~!”

With an icy stare, Ly looks Elluka up and down, trying to figure out the other blonde’s intentions, before shrugging and returning the twin blades in her hands to their sheaths.

“For once, I agree with you,” she sneers, enjoying the dark look on Milky’s face at somehow earning the noble’s approval, let alone agreement. “There’s no point in striking them down now. And it’s not like we have to finish it here…”

“Hm… then,” with a smile crawling back onto her lips, Milky giggles. “Meeting adjourned, I suppose~! Ooh, I can’t wait to see what favours you’ll try to pull in order to win this game, Li~!”

“And I’m just dying to see what kind of underhanded tricks you’ll have to resort to, Eights.” Ly snarls with no small amount of spite. “Long live the queen.”

“Long live the queen.” Milky echoes with a hiss, slinking away into the shadows as Ly struts out of the temple grounds with her head held high, leaving Elluka alone.

“…Long live the queen.” Elluka sighs, bending down to pick up her knife. The black blade doesn’t make for a good mirror, but Elluka can still catch her own expression on its reflective surface. “Long live Ma, the mother of gods.”

Something is wrong. Something is terribly, horribly, very, very wrong.

And the ghost of guilt that plagues her heart might just be the beginning.

* * *

When Elluka makes her way back to the Clockworkers’ house, the empty ache and phantom pain have both receded to a dull throb. Pulling open the door and wincing at the audible groan it emits, she steps into what she presumes is an empty home, since Kiril had mentioned that he would be out buying supplies, and Irina…

“Iri— Irina?!”

Irina, seated by the dining table with both hands holding out a knife poised right above her heart, gasps and loses her hold on the blade in her shock.

“IRINA!” Elluka all but screams, lunging forward as time seems to slow to a crawl.

The seconds tick cruelly by.

The knife that should have plunged into Irina’s chest instead meet the barrier of Elluka’s hands, scoring lines of angry rust that bloom into full-blown red flowers as Elluka grips the blade tight with trembling fingers.

As if awakened from a dream, Irina jolts, her widened eyes widening further at the sight of rusty red dripping down her sister-in-law’s arms.

“Elluka! Gods, Elluka, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” Irina numbly cries out, repeating the apology like a broken record when Elluka hisses and drops the knife, moving to cradle her hands closer but changing her mind at the last second. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m so—“

“It’s fine,” Elluka mutters through gritted teeth, even though it’s clearly not. “Just… we both don’t know any healing magic, right? Get the first aid kit.”

Irina stands there, lips still moving in unspoken apologies, trembling hands hovering uselessly above bleeding ones. Elluka sucks in another breath, willing herself to refrain from lashing out.

“Irina. First aid kit. NOW.”

As if triggered by the harsh tone in Elluka’s voice, Irina jolts again, then scrambles away to retrieve the first aid kit from the bathroom, leaving Elluka to gather her wits and take in a few more calming breaths.

Warily eyeing the discarded bloodstained knife, Elluka wonders why she feels like she’s seen it before, brushing off the strange sense of déjà vu yet again as she bends down to pick it up and place it on the dining table, wincing at the sight of the bloody handprint left on its handle.

Soon enough, Irina returns with the first aid kit, and the next few minutes are spent in awkward silence while the shorter girl carefully treats Elluka’s wounds and bandages her hands. Irina wavers and winces whenever she presses a little too hard, earning a grunt of pain or a strained gasp from Elluka, but finishes the job well enough.

Then, for a good few moments or so after that, Irina holds Elluka’s hands in her own, lightly intertwining their fingers together and brushing her thumbs over Elluka’s palms.

“…Irina?” Elluka mumbles, moving to pull her hands away. “Are you okay? What were you thinking?!“

“I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“—Huh?”

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” sniffling, Irina pulls away, rubbing at her eyes with the heels of her palms. “I don’t want to hurt— you, myself, anyone, everyone— anymore…”

Elluka’s eyebrows rise up in confusion, before realization washes over her in a stroke of insight and suddenly, everything clicks and the pieces fall into place.

“Anymore…?” She asks, reaching to rest her hands on Irina’s shaking shoulders, wincing slightly. “Irina, you…?”

“Why?” Irina sobs, the tears truly starting to flow. “Why me? I just— I just want— friends, a family—”

Stunned, Elluka stares at the crying girl in front of her, before pulling Irina into a crushing hug, ignoring her startled gasp and the stinging pain of her bandaged hands.

“Irina… aren’t I your friend? Kiril, isn’t he— aren’t we your… your family?”

They stay like that for a few excruciatingly long seconds. Then, with a choked noise, Irina returns the hug as fiercely as Elluka initiated it, burying her face into Elluka’s shoulder as she lets out a wail, memories— decades upon centuries upon millennia of memories, some familiar, some not, all of them hers— bubbling to the surface of her mind and bursting free through the warmth of her bitter tears.

Not knowing what to do, Elluka simply rubs comforting circles on the younger girl’s back, brushing her fingers through red hair and murmuring false reassurances and empty promises that she knows she can’t keep.

“It’ll be alright,” Elluka whispers, but her words only cause Irina to cry harder, the tears coming faster and faster. “Everything will be fine; I know it will…”

Even her own reflection in the mirror across the room doesn’t seem convinced by her own words.

* * *

The nature of HER is to spread malice and to destroy everything related to the gods.

Elluka knows that. It’s the main reason she cured Kiril of the syndrome the first chance she got. Even though she was expelled from the temple, Elluka’s loyalty to the gods is still strong enough for her to know that it was the right decision.

Now, though, she isn’t so sure.

“Irina,” she breathes, cautious, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

The two of them are standing in the middle of the temple once more, like when they had faced off against each other as candidates of Project Ma just a few weeks ago.

 _It’s only been a few weeks?_ Elluka thinks to herself. _It feels like ages ago… when Milky and Ly were still… alive…_

Irina stands with her head held high, though her face is twisted with many indescribable emotions, all of them none-too-happy to see each other. In her hand is the same knife she had tried to commit suicide with, now cleaned of blood. But the both of them can still see the memory of red along its edge.

“I’m sure,” Irina answers quietly, dropping her gaze. “Please, Elluka. It’s either this, or… or that.”

The hand holding the knife trembles. Elluka turns her eyes away, still unsure.

“It’s too dangerous. I don’t know if it will work.” The ex-priestess admits, shaking her head. “It worked on Kiril because he wanted to get better, wanted to be good, for my sake. Out of love. Irina, I don’t think— you might be—“

“Too far gone, I KNOW!” Irina blurts out, her grip on the knife turning white-knuckled with tension. “But you have to do it. I killed them, Elluka! I killed Ly, I killed Milky… who knows who might be the next one.” Her voice drops to barely above a whisper. “I know for sure who the next one is. It’s you. Even right now… I can feel HER in my blood. Calling out to me. It’s so strong, I can’t go against it. I’ll kill you. I know I will.”

Silence looms over the two, heavy and suffocating.

Irina takes a single step forward, reversing her grip on the knife. For a brief moment, Elluka panics, thinking that Irina will try to stab herself again, before Irina grabs hold of Elluka’s arm with her free hand and pushes the knife onto her open palm, closing Elluka’s fingers around the handle.

“If it fails,” whispering, Irina looks up at her sister-in-law with glittery eyes, “Then. Do what you have to. To protect yourself. From me. And… take care of Kiril for me. Please.”

“I won’t fail.” Elluka assures her, gently bumping their foreheads together. “Kiril’s counting on me to succeed, after all. He’s… he’s confident that I can do it. He loves his little sister, you know that? I love you, too. You don’t have to do this; we can figure out something else. There has to be another way.”

“No, I want this. Come on, Elluka, it’s your duty, isn’t it?” Irina smiles, closing her eyes. “And let’s not keep Kiril waiting. He’ll get lonely.”

“—Alright.” With a sigh of resignation, Elluka pulls back and places the hand not holding the knife on Irina’s forehead. Bright light shines from the palm of her hand, a soft glow that grows into a blinding white. "I won't let you die, Irina. I'll save you."

The words taste like ash on her tongue.

“I… I love you,” someone says, before breaking into tears.

Somewhere, a three-beat melody echoes.

* * *

Elluka brushes her fingers over the smooth surface of the ark, her thoughts a muddled, chaotic mess.

Six months.

Almost six months have passed, yet the ghost of guilt that plagues her heart only grows stronger, more insistent, with each passing day.

She had failed, of course. She could always pin the blame on something, someone else: Irina’s too-strong attachment to HER, Kiril’s misplaced confidence, the gods for even allowing the damned syndrome to exist in the first place.

But Elluka knows, deep in her heart, that the only thing to blame that day was her wavering resolve and faith.

The fear of failure, aggravated by the fear of Kiril’s disapproval of her failure, and compounded by the smallest sliver of a selfish what-if— what if she succeeded? What if she managed to cure Irina of HER? What then? Would Kiril… abandon her—?

She knows better, now. Kiril wouldn’t do such a thing, too deep in love with her to even consider such a thing, even if she failed. And he had forgiven her, despite everything— or maybe, because of everything— for her catastrophic failure.

Yes. Her pride and despair that day was what caused her failure. Irina’s death.

If only— but no. A wish of “if only” won’t be granted now.

Elluka had won the survival game, and won the right to become the Queen of Levianta, the Mother of Gods, Ma.

But did she deserve it…?

Ever since that day, Kiril had stopped working on something special. Something that was meant to tie the three of them together, a symbol of sharing their joys, pains, and sins together.

The memory of Irina’s hurt expression clouds her thoughts. Irina’s crying face… shifting into Kiril’s visage, furious, beseeching. Disappointed.

The music box has stopped moving.

 _I believed in you,_ Kiril’s voice echoes in her mind. _I trusted you. How could you?_

Its music will never play now.

“I’m sorry…”

_How could you kill my only family? How could you, Elluka? How could you?_

Or that’s what she had thought.

“I’m sorry.”

_I loved her, Elluka. My dear, precious Irina. Gone. Dead. She deserved better. Better than this._

But her ears can hear it.

“I’m sorry!” Elluka all but screams, clapping her hands over her ears. “I failed! I’m sorry! I killed her! I KILLED HER!”

_Irina deserves better. Better than you. Irina should be alive. She should have lived. She should have become the Queen, the Mother, Ma. Not you._

A three-beat melody.

Tomorrow, Elluka would be injected with the seeds of god. She would become everything she’d always dreamed of being. She would save the world from destruction, from the Sin in front of her.

_But there’s a way, isn’t there? You can bring her back. Bring her back to life._

No, it’s not a song.

Save the world from the ark, Sin…

_Yes, Sin… Sin can bring her back. Sin can revive Irina. And if you can’t do it alone, we can do it together. You remember how to use it, right? The thing I taught you, the magic only I— only we can use. The Clockwork Secret Art._

It’s a voice.

Yes… she can still fix this. She can bring Irina back, and Kiril would be so happy. Kiril would be proud of her. And the guilt. The guilt would go away, right?

_Yes, my dearly beloved. Hurry. The whereabouts of the miracle is, right now, in your hands. Take Irina and bring her to Sin. The gods will fix your mistake. The gods will forgive you. The world will forgive you. Levianta will forgive you. Irina will forgive you. But until you set right what went wrong, I will not._

Her own dearly beloved’s voice—

Tomorrow, Elluka will become everything she’d always dreamed of being, will become everything she doesn’t deserve to be.

_You failed me back then. Don’t fail me again!_

Tonight, she will erase her failure.

* * *

**Unlocking the gates of the unknown, to the ark before your eyes…**

_Hey, darling, hurry up and put it in._

**Its name is Sin.**

_Her body— drive it in there!_

**What is it that you wish for? What are you hoping to achieve?**

_Quickly, move quickly, you lazy fool, faster, do it faster, inside that…_

**Please, Elluka— don’t let yourself be deceived…**

* * *

Blinding white envelops everything, a bright light that dims into a soft glow.

A lone sorceress walks through the devastated remains of her home.

“Gone… everything, everyone’s gone…”

The die has been cast; a miracle that definitely shouldn’t have occurred. The brutal act of she who had been manipulated by Sin.

The flowers, the people, the country, her— everything was swallowed up and dissolved, leaving behind nothing and no one.

Nobody but the single resurrected her, looking up at the sky with glittery eyes.

Everything…

“Elluka, Kiril… I’m sorry…”

A three-beat melody echoes. Her chest aches with the ghost of guilt and the phantom pain of a knife in her heart.

Irina Clockworker stares up at the sky, listening to the memory of a music box as twin lights fall towards the forest.

* * *

“This song you’ve heard somewhere; do you remember it?”

Painful. It hurts. Nothing but. Pain.

Who is that man? A scientist? I don’t remember.

That thing in his hands, his burn-covered arms— didn’t I make that?

“After this, you’ll be reborn. Today is your re_birthday.”

A clockwork bluebird.

The man smiles. It’s so familiar. His face. Is so familiar. It’s like mine. His face. Is the same. As mine.

But not. His eyes.

“…Let’s begin.”

Ah, the bluebird— is he. Giving it. To me? I can’t. Reach it. I can’t… reach…

My hands— my arms— my legs— it hurts—

What’s happening? What’s happening… to me…?

“I won’t come back. This experiment… you’ll have to finish it by yourself.”

That’s right, I have to— I have to continue. The experiment.

I have to. Spread “evil”, and. Destroy. All the gods.

Yes, that’s right, I remember— that girl, she— everything, she stole everything— everything!

“It’s your turn, now.”

If the song changes, then I’ll change too.

This three-beat melody.

The clockwork lullaby.


	3. virtus junxit, mors non separabit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There isn't enough darkness in all the world to snuff out the light of one little candle. -- Robert Alden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> meta has a Hard Time™
> 
> here is where i start taking a lot of liberties with the canon! ww i really do love the oss arc and i hope mothy will expand on it further (with a new novel maybe? heres hoping) but until then, i will let my imagination take the reins :D
> 
> and see if you can figure out the reason for a certain oc's name, ufufu~

-CASTITAS-

Life in the Moonlit residence is a hard but fulfilling one. On the days when Meta isn’t helping Eve in the garden, she’s out gathering supplies with Adam in the forest. The three of them take turns taking care of the children, and though the twins remain particularly attached to their birth mother, Adam and Eve take pleasure nonetheless in Hansel’s silly babbling and Gretel’s mischievous antics.

And at the end of the day, when all three of them are tired but happy, Adam, Eve, and Meta retire to their shared bed and share stories and songs before drifting peacefully off to sleep.

With Meta around, the darkness in Eve’s heart grows fainter and fainter with each passing day.

With Meta around, the darkness of Adam’s past fades further and further with each passing day.

With Meta around, the days seem to go by faster and fuller and everything is perfect, or as close to perfect as things can be.

But for Meta herself, the shadows in her heart and the shadows of her past seem to call out louder and stronger with each passing day, berating her for not doing her duty. Spread “evil”. Destroy the gods, and everything related to them. Rip, tear, kill—

Meta opens her eyes with a jolt, barely escaping from the claws and fangs of her nightmares. Well. Another sleepless night for her, then.

Beside her, Adam mumbles something incoherent in a voice muffled by sleep. Eve, with eyes still shut, reaches over with a wandering hand, one that Meta carefully brushes off with more than a little guilt.

Raising herself upright, Meta stares at nothing until her vision swims into focus on the crib holding her sleeping children, framed by the gentle moonlight streaming through the windows. The sight puts a smile to her lips, though even that small reprieve is taken away from her by HER call, like poison in her blood.

She needs something.

Her gaze drops to the two other people still adrift in repose. Adam and Eve, limbs tangled around each other in a perfect fit. Like gears in clockwork doll.

She needs a distraction.

Even in slumber, they look… beautiful. Meta remembers Adam’s strong hands and Eve’s soft touch, back when they rescued her. She remembers Adam’s voice, warm, sweet. Like honey, or the embers of a crackling fire. She remembers Eve’s lips, soft, pale pink. Curled into a teasing pout, enticing.

Meta remembers their warmth in disconnected memories of chaste kisses, affectionate embraces, feather-light touches that promise more, more, more… and it’s not like Adam or Eve would begrudge her that, right? Surely of all people, they would understand her loneliness, her wanting comfort, her desire for pleasure—

Meta gasps, pulling away her reaching hands like they’ve been burned. What… what was she about to…?

“I need to get out of here,” Meta whispers, more to herself than anything, and pushes herself out of bed, careful not to nudge the other two or make any sudden noises that would wake them. Taking her cloak— one deep red in colour, lovingly handmade by Eve, since her old hood had been torn apart during that strange incident in the forest— and pulling it over her head, Meta leaves the cottage with nary a look spared behind her.

The forest is dark, as dark as that night or even darker still. Meta lets her feet take her where they may, too focused on her thoughts and fighting against HER call in her blood. She starts to regret it, her hasty decision to escape into the night, the cold and the dark and the shadows pitting themselves against her defences, wearing down her mental walls.

“I should’ve stayed,” Meta says to thin air, blood burning in her veins. “They’d understand. Right? Adam would… Eve would… they love me… they’d let me… I should’ve…”

Images flood her mind, unbidden. The three of them curled around each other in a fit of passion. Adam’s strong hands and Eve’s soft touch. Adam’s voice. Eve’s lips. The three of them, limbs tangled around each other in a perfect fit. Like gears in a clockwork doll. Adam and Eve, catering to her every whim, her every desire. A dance of passion. Like flowers wrapped around a sword, dripping with venom and liquid passion on a lunatic moonlit night.

Spurred on by the suffocating cold around her, the fire in her mind’s eye burns higher and higher into a raging inferno of want, need, lust, more, more, more—

Something interrupts her rapidly spiralling thoughts and lifts the hazy curtain of desire from her mind.

Meta blinks, raising her eyes from where they were staring at nothing in particular. The sound of a soft burbling, a white noise clears away the shadows in her mind like mud washed away by drizzling rain. She strains her ears to listen to the sound, makes a move to follow the noise, and soon enough she comes across a…

A spring. A gentle, burbling brook, its waters flowing on by across the forest floor. The white noise of its bubbling waters greets her with a welcome, and an unspoken question of concern.

The moon’s reflection wavers on the surface of the bubbling brook, a downturned crescent eye that regards her with concern. The spring burbles invitingly, piercing the shadows in her mind and washing away the lust bleeding purple into her blood and bones.

After a moment or two of hesitation, Meta kneels by the spring, cupping her hands and splashing some onto her face. The cold feels good on her heated skin, a different, refreshing cold compared to the frigid, suffocating cold of before.

Effervescent, the word to describe it.

She stays there for a little while longer, gathering her scattered thoughts and gratefully enjoying the absence of the burning in her blood and the shadows in her mind, even if temporary, before getting up and preparing to return home.

“Thank you.” She smiles to her reflection in the spring. “I needed that.”

That’s right. Just because she feels lonely and cold, doesn’t mean she should indulge in warmth. The temptation to do so is strong, but that just means she has to be stronger. Stronger than the shadows in her mind and stronger than her burning blood and stronger than HER call.

As she turns back to face the forest path, the spring burbles behind her in a silent farewell and voiceless good wishes.

Meta makes her way back through the winding paths of the forest, back to the place she belongs, back to the house with the warm fireplace, back to the home where two people wait for her return with worry and love and open arms.

-TEMPERANTIA-

A strong wind blows through the forest, rustling the leaves.

Magic is a wonderful thing. But in the wrong hands, it can become something terrifying. This is something Meta knows more than anyone, maybe everyone… save perhaps Eve.

Even as far back as her earliest memories, blurry and indistinct and mostly of a certain bespectacled scientist she hopes she won’t ever have to meet again, Meta remembers the thrum of magic around her, the feeling of it at her fingertips.

The exhilarating power it gave her, still gives her even now.

The destruction and havoc it can wreak.

Certain people are more attuned to certain types of magic compared to the rest. Meta knows, because hers— her magic, her affinity, HER— is shadow. When she wills it, shadows come to life. When she takes hold of the latent magic in the air around her and pulls, her own shadow comes to life and takes a mind of its own.

A power she’s used many times before to wreak havoc and destruction.

When she’s surrounded by shadows in the dark of night, when the moon and stars take solace behind a curtain of clouds, when she takes hold of the latent magic in the air around her and pulls, the shadows of night and the shadows in her mind’s eye take the form and shape of eyes, hands, gaping maws that reach and grab and pull, rip, tear, eat, eat, eat—

The air around her crackles with the scent of ozone, which her magic and her burning blood and HER call violently reacts to, pushing against the barrier of her bones, flesh, skin, straining to escape her body.

“Meta,” Eve’s voice cuts in, measured and careful. “I need you to open your eyes, please. Slowly… don’t let go, yet.”

So Meta does, her eyes fluttering open by degrees.

The wind picks up, howling and moaning through the trees.

In front of her, Eve stands, hands held out towards Meta, fingers splayed. Tendrils of shadow wrap around Eve’s legs, wandering appendages that rise and fall like ocean waves, reaching up and over to swallow Eve whole, but Adam’s there too, sweating and panting with the effort to protect his wife from the liquid darkness, cutting down the ones that grow too big like invasive weeds or come too close to Eve’s head for his liking.

“Meta,” Eve repeats, strained. “Can you hear me?”

Yes, Meta wants to answer, but only then does she realize that it’s her who has been swallowed whole by her own shadow, trapped in a cage of shifting black. The shadows laugh, having burst free of their confines and free to control her body like a puppet on strings.

But there is a faint outline of green-blue around the grey-black, a barrier of magic, of divine lightning that repels and drives back the liquid darkness, keeping it from truly engulfing her whole.

“It’s getting worse!” Adam shouts, bringing the blade of his axe down on a particularly bulbous mass of darkness that had somehow grown razor-sharp teeth. “Eve, the magic’s overwhelming her! We need to do something before it—!”

“I KNOW!” Eve screams, casting a worried glance over her shoulder at her husband. “But I’m worried that I’ll hit Meta if I use my lightning magic! It’s too dark, we’re surrounded by shadows, so keeping her contained is all I can do for now!”

Meta feels her hands twitching, her fingers flexing, her mouth watering with a rotten, rampant, ravenous gluttony echoed by the roaring of HER call in her blood.

A roaring mirrored by the tempestuous wind, cutting like blades through the trees.

“Meta, please!” Adam calls out, pulling his axe through a blob of black with a sound like tearing gristle. “You need to control it! Don’t let it consume you!”

Consume?

But it’s not consuming her.

If anything, the hunger is nothing but an extension of her, her, HER. That gluttony is all she is, all that is to her. It’s HER. From the very beginning to the final end. It’s all she is, and all she will be.

She’s hungry. She’s so, so hungry. And her mind’s eye is filled with the images of fruits, rotten and red, the seeds leaking viscous rusty red into a red, bloodstained wineglass.

Her mouth waters.

Her thoughts spiral out of control.

“Hansel, Gretel, get back!”

Adam’s voice startles her, slightly clearing away the shifting greys from her eyes. Meta jolts, seeing through the liquid darkness that had nearly eaten her alive.

The wind slows down.

Hansel and Gretel, huddled around Eve’s legs, barely up to her knees. Blue eyes wide and crazed, small hands tugging on the skirts of Eve’s dress. Their two shadows taking shape, joining Meta’s own tangled mass of liquid darkness.

“What are you doing? What’s wrong with Mama?” Hansel cries, pounding on Eve’s legs.

“Stop hurting her! Let go of Mama! Let her goooo!” Gretel shrieks, clawing at Eve’s dress.

Eve screams again, wild-eyed. Adam tries to grab onto the children, to pull them back, but the shadows ferociously snap at his hands, as if daring him to come any closer.

Meta feels their fear, can almost taste their despair. And the twins, fuelled by the raging tempest of emotions, continue to lash out with their own shadows, the liquid darkness crawling and seeping through the forest floor like a wave of rot and decay.

The wind drops to a gentle breeze, whispering in her ears.

Meta blinks, the black ichor in her eyes dripping away with each tear that escapes. With a grunt of pain, she curls her splayed fingers into fists, pulling in the shadows bit by bit by bit. Slowly, the monochrome filtering her vision lifts like a curtain of fog, returning colour to the world.

In unison, Hansel and Gretel let out a screech, scurrying over to her and latching onto her skirts. The darkness shrinks further at their touch, dissipating and trailing away like wisps of smoke, absorbed into the twins’ own shadows that have returned to normal proportions.

Letting out a shuddering gasp, Eve lets her arms fall to her sides, trembling violently. Adam reaches over, encircling her in a tight embrace. After a moment, the two collapse to the ground, breaths laboured and bodies fatigued.

Meta herself drops to her knees, hugging her two children close, shedding silent tears. For a long while, who knows how long, the five of them stay like that, letting the tension bleed out of the air.

“—Meta? Are you alright?” Adam’s voice, laced with concern, brings her out of her reverie. “We were so worried, when you ran out of the house…”

Meta forces herself to look up, and immediately regrets it. The look of anxious worry on Adam and Eve’s faces brings another bout of fresh tears to her eyes. Sobbing, Meta repeatedly passes the back of her hands over her eyes, trying to wipe away the trailing wetness.

“I— I’m sorry, I’m so— I nearly— almost killed,” she manages to say, voice hoarse. “I almost— let it, let HER— take control— I almost killed Eve—!”

“But you didn’t!” Eve rasps, reaching out to clasp Meta’s hands in her own. “You didn’t let HER take control, Meta. You managed to restrain your magic, even when it wanted out. I saw, when it…” she falters, closing her eyes in grief and recollection, “When it almost consumed you. Meta, I was so scared. But you did it. You controlled HER, even if a little bit.”

Meta stares at them, wide eyes glittery with tears. Adam’s reassuring smile, Eve’s warm gaze. Her vision blurs again. Adam and Eve share a look, before enfolding Meta and the twins in a hug.

“I know it’s not easy,” Adam says, rubbing comforting circles on Meta’s heaving back. “But you can— you will get through this. We’ll always be here to help, promise.”

“And, what you did just now— the way you reined in your magic,” Eve adds, nuzzling her face in the crook of Meta’s neck. “Your inner strength. I’m proud of you. Now,”

“Let’s go home.”

-HUMILITAS-

It’s Meta’s turn to travel to the nearest town for supplies, despite Adam and Eve’s assurances that she doesn’t need to do so. Meta knows that she has to learn how to reintegrate into society, and it’s best to start with someplace small, like the neighbouring town.

She stands at the doorstep, carrying a covered basket full of bottles of jam and bunches of herbs. Adam and Eve fret over her, smoothing down her cloak and readjusting her hood, checking and rechecking to make sure that her disguise is good enough to hide her identity from prying eyes.

“I can’t believe Mama’s going without us,” Gretel whines, clutching at Meta’s skirts.

“I don’t want Mama to leave,” Hansel pouts, blue eyes glimmering with tears.

Laughing, Meta gently brushes off Adam and Eve’s hands, kneeling down to look her children in the eye.

“I’m just going for a little while, and it’s safer for you two to say here,” she says, ruffling Hansel’s and then Gretel’s hair with affection. “Besides, you two have to take care of Daddy and Mommy and each other for me, okay?”

“Okay…” smiling, Hansel nods with understanding. “I’ll protect Daddy, Mommy, and Gretel for Mama.”

Gretel, however, stamps her foot and crosses her arms, a sullen look on her face. “I don’t care about Daddy or Mommy,” she huffs, “I only care about Mama and Hansel!”

“Gretel! Don’t say things like that,” Meta chides, placing a hand on Gretel’s shoulder. “Daddy and Mommy are both important to me, just like you and Hansel. Be nice!”

“It’s alright, Meta.” Eve smiles, a little bit sadly. “I’m fine.”

Meta purses her lips, her expression thoughtful. Then, seemingly making her mind up, she leans over to give Hansel and Gretel a quick kiss on the forehead each, the twins giggling at her touch. Getting to her feet, Meta pulls Adam in to give him a kiss on the cheek, then repeats it for Eve as well, lingering a few moments longer to brush her thumb over Eve’s lips.

“Stay safe, alright?” Meta tells them, drawing her hood down and turning around, departing from the warmth of the cottage for the forest.

“Safe travels, Meta!” Adam calls out, waving her goodbye. The twins echo his words, energetically bouncing up and down. Eve watches her go, her lips slightly open as she brushes her own fingertips across them, a blush rising to her face.

With the map that Adam had made for her, Meta easily traverses the many winding forest paths until she comes across the small town that is her destination in just a short amount of time. Gathering her cloak around her, Meta trades and barters with the various merchants in the market, careful to avoid the nosier ones and replying to prying questions with measured, vague answers when she can.

When she’s managed to trade away most of her basket’s contents for bread and cloth and other necessities, Meta decides to take a short break, sitting down at a public bench and resting her basket on her lap.

Closing her eyes and enjoying the bustling environment of the town around her, Meta feels more than hears someone taking a seat beside her, the sudden warmth indicating that the person had settled down quite close despite there being plenty of space on the bench.

“Um, uh, excuse me…” says a quiet voice, almost a whisper, obviously belonging to the stranger beside her. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but… are you… could you possibly be… Meta Salmhofer?”

Meta’s heart skips a beat, her eyes flying wide open as panic floods her chest and fear squeezes at her throat. Her knuckles go white, her grip tightening on the basket’s handle, nearly splintering the rattan under her fingers. She turns her head to glare at the stranger, her destructive instincts barely kept in check as the shadows by her feet suddenly become darker than dark, a featureless void that seems to suck up all the light.

“Sorry, sorry!” the stranger hurriedly apologises in hushed tones, miming pulling a zipper shut over their mouth. “I forgot about your… current situation. I won’t mention your name again, promise.”

The two stare at each other for a moment, before the tension slowly drains from Meta’s shoulders, convinced by the sincerity in the stranger’s tone. She takes in the stranger’s appearance— a young boy, with hair as white as snow and eyes as red as the single red flower tucked behind an ear.

The sight of the flower suddenly makes her heart surge with… pride. Meta unconsciously smiles as memories— of her days as a witch, a terrorist, Apocalypse’s fourth member— resurface in her mind’s eye.

“You were the Witch of Red Flowers, right?” The young boy asks, plucking the flower from his hair and twisting it between his fingers. “My mother looked up to you, though I didn’t understand why. I still don’t, really…”

Her heart sings with pride and her ego swells, the smile on her lips curling into a wide smirk. HER whispers echo with purpose in her empty thoughts. Meta stares at the red flower in the stranger’s hands, mesmerized. Spellbound.

“Mother said that… you were her best friend, that you taught her all the things she knew. About magic, and how the world really works. How the strong dominates the weak,” the stranger continues, cupping a hand around the delicate blossom. “Mother thought the world of you…”

Something about the boy’s words feel off, but that rational part of Meta’s mind goes unnoticed as the rest of it enjoys the praise lavished upon her. She nods her head, her burning blood pounding in her ears and her eyes full of the recollection of rip, tear, kill, red, red, red—

“Mother died because of you, that day.”

 

The boy abruptly closes his hand into a fist, crushing the petals beneath. He glares up at Meta with wide, wild eyes, searching for— an answer, a reason, something. The memories relived in her mind’s eye shatter like a mirror, spreading shards of reflective glass. Even the shadows in her mind shudder at the boy’s intense gaze, relinquishing its hold on Meta and retreating behind her rational thoughts, understanding slowly dawning as she regains control.

“You…” Meta whispers, bringing a hand up to cover her mouth in her shock, “You’re… Raisa’s…?”

“Cagliostro.” The boy hisses, narrowing his blood red eyes. “My name is Cagliostro Netsuma, you witch! How could you let her die? What gave you the right? Why did the gods let you live, while my mother—?!”

Guilt lances through her like a knife through the heart. Meta’s eyes prickle with hot tears, her basket put aside as she takes Cagliostro’s trembling hands in her own. Cagliostro, to his credit, doesn’t immediately pull away, instead glaring at Meta with red eyes full of hate.

“Your mother, she was… my best friend, in Apocalypse. She helped me through a lot, back then,” Meta explains, humbly ducking her head as she sifts through her memories for Raisa’s face. “Truth be told, I think… we were… both terrible people, at heart. But I definitely had a hand in leading her down that path. And I truly regret it. I regret everything I did to her, everything I was to her. I failed to protect her, from myself above all.”

“I still hate you,” Cagliostro seethes, but the boiling malice in his voice has cooled down to a subdued simmer. “I still wish that you had died that day, instead of mother.”

Meta smiles. “Sometimes, I think that myself,” she responds, bringing a hand to her chest. “But there’s nothing I can do; we can’t bring back the dead. I don’t,” here she falters, taking in a shuddering breath, “I don’t deserve to ask your forgiveness, so I won’t. If you wish to— to punish me in some way, then, I… I’ll accept it.”

Startled, but still unable to let go of his anger, Cagliostro surges forward, pulling at the fabric of Meta’s cloak until the both of them are face-to-face, his hot breath on her cheek.

“What if I want you dead?”

“Th-then,” Meta stutters, her eyes fluttering shut. “Allow me… one more day? Let me return home, and I’ll… I’ll meet you here, tomorrow, I promise. You can… avenge your mother, then.”

The two stare at each other for a few tense moments, before Cagliostro sighs, releasing his grip on Meta’s cloak. Meta settles back, smoothing down her clothes and readjusting her hood, then looks at the young Netsuma boy again, her expression sorrowful.

“Even if I kill you, there’s no point,” Cagliostro admits, shaking his head. “Like you said, we can’t bring back the dead. And I don’t think mother would be proud of me for murdering her best friend.” Here, he allows himself a small, sardonic smile. “You’ve changed, Witch of Red Flowers. You’re so different from what I expected, from the tales mother used to regale me of you. Tell me— why the change of heart?”

Meta averts her eyes from his, a lump forming in her throat at the pleading tone in his voice. Then, squaring her shoulders, she gazes at him with a gentle smile.

“I… I’ve found someone, two people, who, despite all my shortcomings, all my sins, rescued me, took me in, accepted all of me, gave me a second chance,” she recounts, her voice growing warm at the memory of Adam and Eve. “They, along with my children, bring me such joy… all of them are so dear to me. I want to protect them, at any and all costs.”

“They must be very important to you,” Cagliostro says, closing his eyes. “Fine. I have one last question for you. Answer me this: was my mother that important to you as well?”

“Yes,” Meta answers immediately, surprising even herself. “Yes, she was. More… much more than I cared to admit to her, back then.”

Abruptly, Cagliostro stands, the crushed flower fluttering to his feet. Bending down to pick it up, he presents it to Meta with an unreadable look on his face. Meta accepts it, gazes at the red petals, thankful. She slips the stem behind her ear.

“I wish you well in your new life,” Cagliostro says in a controlled, neutral tone, giving Meta a nod of acknowledgement. “Thank you for allowing me to find closure. I won’t seek you out after this. Just, promise me this? Remember my mother… remember that she lived.”

“Of course,” Meta replies, getting to her feet and giving Cagliostro a grateful bow. “I’ll always keep her in my heart; may her soul rest in peace and find salvation.”

“And… Meta?”

“Yes, Cagliostro?”

The boy bites his lip, chewing on both it and his next words. Inhaling deeply, he draws himself up to his full height, looking up at Meta with determination.

“Promise me that, from now on, you’ll protect the ones that you love, no matter what…?”

“—Of course. I will, with my life. I won't fail again.”

Without another word, Cagliostro turns on his heel, walking away into the crowd. Meta gazes at his retreating back, before shaking her head and sighing, preparing to make a journey of her own.

To return to her home.


	4. perge sequar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meta faces her inner demons and makes a friend and a half.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> orz
> 
> im sorry it took me a month+ to update, university wifi blocked ao3...

—Industria—

Days turn to weeks turn to months turn to years. Meta lives her life the happiest she’s ever been, learning new things and re-learning forgotten things under Adam’s tutelage every other day, honing her magic and shamanistic knowledge with lessons that Eve teaches every now and then, and playing with her two adorable children whenever she has free time.

And she herself changes, even a little bit. She learns to wear confidence in her smile, trains herself to be good and do good, familiarizes herself with the residents of the nearby town so that she doesn’t feel like an outcast every time she visits on one of her trips to shop for supplies.

But, despite everything.

Despite everything, the shadows continue to plague her, tainting her happy memories with doubt and self-loathing.

Despite everything, she’s still not truly happy.

Not with the guilt still weighing down her heart.

_And you’ll never be happy. As long as you deny your true purpose, you’ll never be satisfied._

“Mama, I’m bored…”

_Look at them._

“Why don’t we have nice things, Mama?”

_Imperfect copies of the twin gods._

“Mama, I want toys.”

_So easy, it’d be so easy to kill them._

“When can we buy better things, Mama?”

_Destroy the gods._

“Mama, I want more! More!”

_Spread evil._

“Please, Mama? Can’t we have more?”

_Rip, tear, kill, destroy—_

The memory of her children’s pleading faces constantly hound her in her dreams, followed closely by Eve’s sad smile and Adam’s helpless laugh. On the tail end of one such nightmare, just as the shadows in her dream start to crawl up her body and engulf her whole (yet again), Meta’s eyes fly open, breath coming in erratic gasps, a prologue to another sleepless night.

She needs closure.

Sighing, she rubs her face with a sweaty palm, biting back a curse as the blood in her veins slowly start to burn up, signalling HER awakening.

The burning blood sings sweet whispers in her ears, trying to lull her back to sleep.

_Why bother? Children will be children, always wanting things they don’t have. Adam and Eve won’t ask anything of you that you haven’t already given up to them. Your children, your heart, everything._

_Why bother?_

_Give everything over._

_Go back to sleep._

“You’re very annoying, you know that?” Meta mutters under her breath, swinging her legs over the bed’s edge and shakily getting to her feet. Her heartbeat slowly returns to normal, undeterred by HER whispers. After years and years of suffering, not anymore.

 _You’re the annoying one,_ the voice in her head seethes, furious. _If you’d just do what I say, then—!_

“And you’re becoming predictable. Everything you say I should do, I don’t, and things always turn out fine. Better, even.”

The burning blood gives no reply, its sudden silence leaving her thoughts uncomfortably empty.

“See? You’re no better than Hansel or Gretel. Just like a petulant child.” Meta chides, blinking the sleep out of her eyes and stretching out her arms with a yawn. “But I admit, I haven’t thought of any answers to this problem… so if you’re not going to, then I’ll just have to go and meet you myself.”

A confused, reluctant buzzing, the faintest of static, echoes in her thoughts. With a devious smile on her lips, one she hasn’t worn since her days in Apocalypse, Meta makes her way to the cottage’s kitchen, carefully feeling her way through the darkness. Reaching the dining table, Meta pulls out a chair and sits in it, resting her crossed arms on the table’s wooden surface.

Closing her eyes, she prepares to retreat to a far restless place than sleep.

_What are you doing…?_

The company of her own thoughts.

_Wait, what are you doing?! Stop!_

When she opens her eyes, Meta finds herself floating in an abyss of scarlets, crimsons, and the heavy, metallic scent of rust. Instinctively, she knows that it’s her inner psychological world, and that the bloody red staining her surroundings is a product of her subconscious mind.

Standing, or rather floating before her with a surprised look on its— her— its face, is a perfect facsimile of her own body, save for the ominous glow in its pure white eyes.

There’s no doubt.

It’s HER.

“Wow,” Meta chuckles breathlessly, shaking her head to clear the lingering fog. “Didn’t think I’d manage to make it. All those magic lessons with Eve, all that diligence really paid off. What a surprise, right?”

 _—You’re a very strange sort, to twist the Swap Technique into… this,_ the shadow of HER intones in a voiceless voice, bright eyes narrowing. _Most would not be brave enough to face their inner demons. Very few know how._

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Besides,” pointing a finger at her head, Meta laughs. “My inner demons have been bothering me a lot, lately. I figured we could talk it out better face-to-face. Maybe accompany you for a little while, since you seem to be very lonely in here.”

 _I am just trying to fulfil my purpose,_ the shadow bites out, lips curling into a snarl. _I am NOT lonely!_

“And I’m not lonely either,” Meta replies dryly, crossing her arms over her chest. “But it sounds like we’re both terrible liars, so I’m not inclined to believe either one of us.”

Silence. The red around them pulses once, twice, thrice, a constant three-beat melody. Like a beating heart.

 _I could kill you,_ the shadow mutters, slowly advancing upon Meta, step by step. _I could kill you and put an end to all of this nonsense._

“If you kill me, we’ll both cease to exist.” Meta shoots back, slightly alarmed. “You’re just a part of me, not a separate soul. You can’t exist by yourself!”

_So what?! Anything’s better than this miserable denial of existence!_

Holding up her hands in a placating gesture, Meta sighs. “Look, I’m not trying to prove a point. I know what you want. What you want me to do.”

_Destroy the gods, and all of their creation. Spread evil. Rip, tear, kill, destroy—_

“…Yes, that.”

 _So why won’t you do it?_ Roaring, the shadow surges up to her and grasps her shoulders, fingernails digging into the skin and leaving reddened crescents in their wake. _Why do you deny your purpose?! Fulfilling it would lead us to happiness. We will be satisfied at last, and we can finally rest!_

Meta looks into her impostor’s eyes, a bittersweet smile tugging at her lips. The shadow releases its grip on her, its expression twisted with disgust.

“Do you really believe that?” Gently, softly, quietly, Meta asks, earthen brown peering into— no, seeing through luminescent white into inky black. The shifting darkness hiding behind the obstinate light.

“Do you really, truly believe that we’ll be satisfied with that?”

 _What do you know,_ the shadow grumbles, averting its unnatural gaze. _You won’t even try._

“Neither will you. Can’t you just accept their love? Try to, at least?”

 _They do not love us. They cannot love us._ Voice dropping to a whisper, the shadow shakes its head. _We— we are unlovable. We cannot love, we do not deserve love._

“That’s where you’re wrong. Eve loves us. Adam loves us. Our children love us. I—” Meta murmurs, suddenly pulling her doppelgänger into a hug. “I’m still learning how to love myself. Maybe we don’t know how, but we can try.”

 _Then cast me out,_ the shadow chokes out, trying to push her away, dark ichor dripping out of pure white. _I heard you discussing it with Adam! There’s a priestess from Levianta who can do it, right? It’ll be so easy; just go to her, and then you’ll be free of me—_

“No. No, I don’t think so… I still need you after all.” Pulling back, Meta smiles at the stunned look on her shadow’s face, raising a hand to wipe away the tears of inky black. “It’s a night of the new moon, your favourite night. The forest is very dark. I don’t think either one of us can make it alone.”

 _…Still afraid of the dark? You poor, frightened child._ The shadow chuckles lowly, brushing off Meta’s hands and hurriedly wiping away the sticky wetness trailing on its cheeks. _We’re the only ones who can help each other, right? Looks like you won’t be rid of me yet._

“Not yet. Not anytime soon,” Meta agrees, nodding. “What a pitiful pair we make, right?”

_…Indeed._

“So, are you finally going to stop?”

_Mm… no, I have a better idea. I want to see which one of us is right in the end. For that, I need to—_

The world around them shudders, and a pain like a thousand needles stabs through Meta’s head. She opens her mouth to scream, but nothing but inky black pours out. The shadow reaches out to her, eyes wide, and that’s all Meta remembers before she blacks out.

With a gasp, Meta’s eyes fly open once again, her consciousness returned to the world of reality. Her hands fly to her head, gripping fistfuls of hair as she forces herself to take deep breaths and calm down.

 _Are you alright?_ Faint static buzzes in her ears, the white noise somehow melding into spoken words. _Sorry, I didn’t think it would hurt that bad. Heh. I bet you’re regretting this already, right?_

Meta’s shadow flickers, briefly losing its shape, before suddenly gaining distinction and turning into a gaping void, looking for all the world like a hole cut out of reality. A pair of white eyes blinks open in the patch of darkness yet darker than dark.

Meta yelps, nearly falling out of her chair.

A murky grey of concern bubbles up in her head, mixed in with a faint wisp of bemused orange. _Careful now,_ the voice in her head chimes, followed by the shadow on the floor shaking its head at her, _wouldn’t want to lose all the progress we made._

“Is… is that…?”

_Me? Yeah, it’s me. HER. Whatever you want to call me._

Laughing softly, Meta stands up, keeping one hand on the table to steady herself. “What— wow. Okay? Okay, alright. Um… do you have a name? I doubt you’d like me calling you ‘my shadow’ or 'my inner demon' every time, poetically accurate as it may be.”

_Just HER is fine— err, Malice, if you prefer something shorter._

“…Malice, then. So, you know what I’m planning to do, right? Shall we get going?” Making her way to the front door, grabbing her cloak and basket on the way, Meta puts on the heavy fabric and settles the basket in the crook of her arm. The shadow— Malice shakes her head again, eye-lights crinkling slightly in an invisible smile nonetheless.

_I still don’t think it’s a good idea. I still hate you for denying our purpose. But… I’ll try. I’ll do what I can to support you. I want to see whether your way is the right way, after all._

“Okay. Let’s go.”

_Wait, shouldn’t you leave a note, at least?_

“Ah! Right.”

Pulling out pen and paper from one of the bedside drawers, Meta hastily scribbles down a note and leaves it on the drawer top, careful to not make any sudden noises that would awaken the sleeping couple still in bed.

As the two-in-one duo step out of the cottage’s perimeter, a pair of bright blue eyes blink open from their sleep, gleaming unnaturally bright as they curiously follow the retreating woman until she’s out of sight.

The two, as one, leave the warmth of the cottage for the cold of the forest in the dead of night. Meta combs through the plants and trees, partaking in the bounty of the forest. Malice trails behind her, pointing out the fruits that Meta missed and gathering up the flowers within her— its— her reach.

The soil feels good beneath their weary feet, pushing them ever onward.

And then Meta finds herself too tired to move, feeling a burning exhaustion in her legs, a leaden weight in her shoulders, and the blood burning in her veins. She stumbles along clumsily, awkwardly, and soon falls to her knees. A breeze rustling through the trees blows gently on her eyelids, making them droop. She tries to stifle a yawn, tries to stop the sudden lethargy from spreading through her limbs.

It’s an uphill battle, and one that she’s swiftly losing.

She worries at first, having not heard a single word from her other half in a while, but she soon sees a hand of shifting greys gently shaking her awake, reaching down to help her up.

Of course they can count on each other; she’s never had it in her to trust anyone but herself for so long.

Slowly, the basket fills to the brim with red fruits and red flowers. The two share a glance at the basket’s contents, and then at each other, their expressions a perfect mirror.

“Do you think it’s enough?” Meta asks quietly, eyes downcast. “Do you think he’ll let us see her?”

 _Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t know,_ Malice answers, just as quiet. _Maybe he will. Maybe he won’t. Our sins can never be forgiven, but… well, we’ll have to go and see for ourselves._

“Okay… alright.” Steeling herself, Meta continues on her journey, accompanied only by her own shadow.

To the neighbouring town.

—Humanitas—

By the time they reach their destination, the black sea of the sky has begun to make way for the murky pinprick lights of dawn. Meta steps into the town’s borders with trepidation, letting her feet take her to the bench where she had that fateful encounter.

Fate must have a strange sense of humour, because sitting there on that same bench, face tilted to the sky, white hair ruffled slightly by the mild breeze, is none other than Cagliostro himself, eyes closed in apparent sleep.

Standing still, just mere feet away from the boy— now a young man, Meta finds herself rooted to the spot, unable to take another step.

“I can’t,” Meta chokes out, trembling. The basket in her hand tumbles to the ground, its contents haphazardly spilling onto the ground. Malice shudders, a familiar sensation washing through her as her other half turns on her heel and flees back into the forest.

_Meta?!_

“I can’t. I don’t want to!” Meta growls, entire body shaking with the brunt of her emotions. She nearly runs into a tree, barely stopping herself before being impaled by a branch. “He still has the rest of his family, his clan! I don’t need to apologize!”

Below them, partially hidden in the roots of the tree, a pair of gems sparkle in the light of the dawning sun.

 _Meta, don’t let it control you,_ Malice warns, taking physical form and grabbing Meta’s wrists. _Something’s doing this to you; I can sense it nearby._

“So what? Isn’t this what you wanted?!” Pulling her hands free, Meta glares at Malice, eyes full of envy. “It’s easy for you to say; you’re not the one who has to suffer HER whispers!”

 _Meta,_ Malice repeats, tense. _You need to snap out of it. You need closure. You need to apologize to Cagliostro. You need to make peace with Raisa’s memory._

“Damn Raisa and her memory!” Hissing, Meta sinks to her knees, pulling at fistfuls of hair in agitation. “She should be glad she’s dead! At least she doesn’t have to suffer the guilt and the hatred and envy—“

Gritting her teeth, Malice delivers a painful-sounding slap to Meta’s face, sending her tumbling backwards. Shocked speechless, Meta touches a hand to her reddening cheek, looking up at her other half with a lost, dazed expression.

 _Do not speak to me of envy,_ the shadow hisses, white eyes flaring bright. _You don’t know what it feels like, to see the world through a looking-glass! To see you and Adam and Eve and Hansel and Gretel, happy and peaceful and oh-so-loving—_ the shadows around them grow larger and more menacing, seeming to suck in the paltry light of dawn and leaving behind patches of pure darkness _—and me, trapped on the other side of the mirror, with nothing but my whispers and my purpose! A purpose you made me turn my back on! You know NOTHING—_

“Meta?”

With a startled gasp, Malice disintegrates back into shifting greys, fleeing into the safety of Meta’s shadow. Meta herself stumbles back a little in surprise, breath erratic.

“Meta, are you okay?”

“C-Cagliostro?”

Extending a hand to her, the young Netsuma man carefully helps Meta up to her feet, surreptitiously checking her over for any bumps or bruises. Meta meekly waits through his inspection, taking the time to calm her breathing and her nerves.

 _You alright?_ In a subdued voice, Malice asks, the words echoing around in Meta’s mind.

 _Yeah, I believe so,_ Meta thinks without saying it out loud. _Thanks for… for helping me just now._

_…I wasn’t— never mind. Forgive me for losing my temper… ah, hey, look over there._

Frowning a little at the abrupt change of topic, Meta nonetheless turns her gaze to where Malice had indicated, spotting her basket by Cagliostro’s feet. The young man, noticing where her eyes have strayed to, bends down to pick up the basket, holding it out to Meta with a sheepish smile.

“I was watching the stars, but I must have dozed off,” he explains as Meta takes the basket from him. “Then, I heard your voice, but when I opened my eyes all I saw was a bunch of red stuff on the ground. I thought that maybe you had run away because there was someone else there, so I decided to gather up your things just in case you came back. But then, I heard rustling in the trees,” he pales at the memory, “so I thought that you were in danger, and I—“

“Thank you,” cutting off his ramble, Meta gives Cagliostro a deep bow, her expression truly grateful.

“…Hah,” pursing his lips, Cagliostro shakes his head. “No problem. You’re my mother’s best friend, after all.” His expression turned curious. “So, why did you come here? And why all the fruits and flowers?”

“I came to see you,” Meta replies with a small smile. “And these are actually for you.”

“O-oh…?” Surprised, Cagliostro nonetheless takes the basket of offerings from Meta. “Why?”

“I know it’s not much, but I thought— that I had to try and make amends.”

“You… already apologized, back then,” Cagliostro awkwardly points out, trying hard to keep his voice level, “And you already know what my answer is.”

“Yes. I know.” Meta agrees, nodding. “But I didn’t come here just to ask for forgiveness. I… want to see her.”

“…Mother?”

“Could you take me to her? Please?”

Cagliostro gazes at Meta for a few seconds, considering her request. Meta and Malice wait with bated breath, the two twining their fingers together for comfort in the inner world of their thoughts.

“—Alright. Come with me.”

Silently, the two make their way to the other edge of the town. There, Meta sees rows upon rows of stone markers. Gravestones. A cemetery.

“Here,” weaving his way between the graves, Cagliostro kneels down in front of one in particular. A humble, simple gravestone marks the space, its surface covered with dust.

“Here?” Meta repeats, kneeling down beside Cagliostro, who nods in affirmation. With trembling hands, she wipes away the dust covering the stone, breath stuttering at the sight of the name inscribed upon the marker.

“Raisa…” she murmurs, bracing her hands against the gravestone, and then the dam finally breaks. “Raisa, I’m so sorry… I’m sorry for everything I did, for what I failed to do…”

Cagliostro averts his eyes as Meta cries for her fallen friend, allowing her to grieve at her own pace. Slowly, gradually, the words and tears fade into silence, and Meta leans forward until her forehead touches the stone, emotions spent.

 _I’m tired,_ she thinks. _I’m so tired._

_Then rest._

_I still need to ask for—_

_Rest. Let me take care of it. Um, may I…?_

Malice trails off, unsure, but Meta understands what she’s trying to ask. She can’t recall a time when the voice in her head had ever sounded so humble, and although she has plenty of reasons not to, she decides to trust her and surrenders control for the first time, retreating to their shared psyche to recover.

Malice catches herself just as the empty physical body starts to tip over, shaking her head to clear out the fog of fatigue. She stares at her— Meta’s— her hands for a second, wondrous. For a very brief moment, she considers just going back on her word and fulfilling her true purpose— no. She has to try and ignore the burning in her blood and the shadows in the back of her mind, at least for a little while.

At least for Meta’s sake.

At least to prove Meta wrong when it all comes crumbling down in the end.

“Cagliostro?”

The young man perks his head up, snapping back to attention. “Yes, Meta?”

“I’m not…” Meta— with Malice in control— starts to say something, but changes her mind at the last second. “Never mind. Uh, can I ask you a favour? Please?”

“Anything reasonable.” Cagliostro replies, a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

“I was… thinking of getting something for the— the people I love. Gifts, to express my thanks.”

“Gifts, to express your… you really have changed, haven’t you?” Laughing slightly, Cagliostro shakily raises himself to his feet, lending a hand to Meta to help her up. “I’ll see what I can find. And don’t worry about paying me back or anything; these will do just fine.” He gestures at the basket full of fruits and flowers.

“…Thank you. I’m grateful, truly.”

“No, thank you for coming to visit us. You really are too kind. Come, let’s get back to my house. There are a few of mother’s belongings that I think she’d like you to have, and…”

Chatting together like old friends, the two make their way back to Cagliostro’s home, their path lit by the brightening rays of daybreak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now that i look back on it... malice is basically chara from undertale
> 
> so i knowwww the her syndrome probablyyyy doesnt work like how i portrayed it in this chapter,,, im sorryyy,,, but the idea of a helpful, if reluctant, alter ego for meta who can also take control of the body sometimes is a little hc ive had for a while! also because i feel like she needs a sort of older-sibling-type person to complement her
> 
> so with this, meta has a) two lovers, b) two children, c) a friend and d) a sibling...ish, a very different circumstance from her canon self; tbh i just wanted to give her ALL the different kinds of love <3<3<3
> 
> comment what you think, yeah? thanks for continuing w/ me on my journey to make a nicer, kinder evillious story!


	5. finis vitae, sed non amoris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fall, and the end of the beginning of the end.

—Patientia—

Cagliostro, as it turns out, lives by himself. His father left before he was born, and his maternal grandparents took care of him in his mother’s constant absence.

“They passed away about a year ago,” Cagliostro explains without prompting, pulling open a drawer and rifling through its contents, “And the rest of the clan keeps in contact, through correspondence between us has dwindled over the years. So I’ve been fending for myself since then… It’s been alright. The townspeople are kind enough, even if some of them prefer to avoid me. But I do my best—and I’m still here.”

“Incredible… you really are your mother’s son,” Malice-as-Meta smiles sadly, regarding him with fond eyes. At Cagliostro’s behest, she’s seated in a comfortable chair while he searches through his house for the gifts. “If Raisa were still alive, I think she’d be really proud of you.”

“Thank you,” he replies, and there’s a tinge of bittersweet joy colouring his voice. “When you say it like that… I can almost believe it. Ah, here they are! I hope these will do.”

Gathering up the things in his arms, Cagliostro returns to Meta and presents them to her, kneeling before her and placing them on her lap.

A glass locket, an ornamented mask, a silver spoon, a pocket watch, and a gold ring.

“What—? Cagliostro, I can’t accept these. It’s too much!” Meta exclaims, overwhelmed. “These must be worth a fortune…”

“Please.” Cagliostro murmurs, picking up the ring with one hand and gently taking Meta’s hand in the other. “Mother loved you above all else. She wanted to give these to you, but… she never found the right time. And now, she can’t.”

“Cagliostro…”

“Please, let me give them to you in her stead.” He begs, slipping the ring onto her finger. “Take them, Meta. This is the closure I need—we need. For mother. For me.”

Meta stares at the ring, her mind racing. She… Malice wants to wake Meta up, to let her deal with the situation, or even to take the ring off and reject it, reject the emotions and the truth. But the sheer hopefulness in Cagliostro’s eyes win her over, and she sighs, cradling her hand close to her chest.

“Okay,” she says, dropping her head in a nod. “I will. Thank you.”

A relieved laugh escapes Cagliostro’s lips, his body sagging with sheer relief and satisfaction. Malice hesitates for just a moment before reaching out to caress the top of his head, trying to be comforting.

“You’re such a good child. She’d be proud.”

Cagliostro gives her an indecipherable look, red eyes glittery with unshed tears. “When you say it like that,” he repeats, slowly, carefully, trying to keep his voice from cracking with emotion, “I can… I can almost believe it. Almost.”

Malice feels something in her crumble even further, watching the tearful young man through borrowed eyes. After a few long moments, Cagliostro finally finds the strength to rise to his feet, exchanging the contents of Meta’s basket for the gifts. The two part ways in a subdued silence, exchanging quiet words of goodbye muffled by emotional fatigue and lack of sleep. But before she can get more than two steps away—

“Meta?” Cagliostro calls out, pulling on her sleeve. “I just want you to know something.”

“What is it?”

“You’re… Project Ma, six months ago, they,” he audibly swallows, struggling to get out the words, “They’ve. Found a new candidate. An ex-priestess, the fiancée of the famous Clockworker.”

“Is that so?” Malice’s eyebrows rise in interest, but not enough to counter her impatience. “Good for them, I suppose, but I really must be getting back home. I’ve been away for far too long now.”

“—Yeah. Y-yeah.” With a weak laugh, Cagliostro leans on the doorframe, feebly raising a hand to wave her goodbye. “I just thought you’d want to know. She’ll be crowned Queen tomorrow… and probably become Ma as well. You’ll finally be free.”

_Free._

Malice’s chest constricts at the word, a million emotions running through her thoughts. _Will I ever truly be free? Is that even a possibility for us? For me? For her? …For HER?_

“I guess so.” She manages to choke out, turning away from Cagliostro to hide her conflicted expression. “Goodbye.”

“Until we meet again, Meta.”

Even so, when Malice leaves the Netsuma residence and makes for the way back home, it is with a heart less burdened and a spring in her step. Meta, awakened from her short repose, echoes her happiness, emanating faint smudges of satisfied peach.

 _You’re fond of him,_ Meta teases, delighting in the faint red that creeps upon Malice’s— and by extension, her own— cheeks. _You love him like you would a child._

“I wouldn’t call it love,” Malice argues, but her tone is half-hearted, the usual poison coating her barbs not quite there. “Maybe respect. He is a strong person. If it were me in his position, I would’ve killed you the first chance I got.”

_Hm._

“One day you’ll understand, Meta.”

_Maybe. Or maybe we’ll learn to understand each other, one day. Now, may I?_

“Aw, so soon? And here I was, having fun. Maybe I should take control more often!” But the objection is nothing more than an empty threat, and Malice relinquishes her hold soon enough. While Meta takes the reins with a shake of her head, Malice reorients herself in their shared subconscious, nestling within the familiar red.

* * *

The sun sinks below the horizon, and the moon and stars twinkle into existence against the backdrop of the blackening sky.

The walk back to their home takes longer than their journey away, owing to the physical weariness finally catching up to them both. By the time they reach the cottage’s perimeter, Malice has returned to her cynical, irritable attitude, and Meta herself clings onto the last fraying threads of her patience.

So when she goes to open the door, and instead is met with Adam slamming it open with a loud bang, threatening to knock the wood off its hinges, Meta barely suppresses the urge to snap, egged on by the sudden burst of white-hot fury emanating from Malice within her.

“Where have you been?!” Adam hisses, glaring at her with eyes narrowed to slits. “Eve was worried sick, and the twins have been absolutely maddening!”

“I…” Meta falters, unable to explain her sudden excursion in the middle of the night. “I was… seeking closure?”

With an exasperated huff, Adam pinches the bridge of his nose. He lets up his white-knuckled grip on the doorframe, allowing Meta in. Meta steps into the household with hesitance, guilt warring with irritation.

“You could’ve at least left a note,” Adam complains, going over to where Eve is trying and failing to keep the twins in check.

“I did, though?” Meta confusedly replies, following Adam and leaning over to give Eve a peck on the cheek. “I’m sorry for making you worry, Eve. But I really needed to… do something.”

“Oh, Meta,” Eve mumbles, eyes teary, “I thought you ran away or, or you didn’t want to live with us anymore! Please, don’t ever do that again, okay? I don’t think my heart can take it!”

“I’ll try. Gretel, Hansel, stop that.” With a click of the tongue, Meta scoops up both children from where they were clinging and pulling on Eve’s hair, the twins quieting instantly in her hold. “I hope they weren’t too much trouble…”

Adam forces a cough. An awkward silence passes between them, while Hansel and Gretel look up at Meta with innocent eyes. Meta gently lowers them to the floor, an uneasy hand on each head.

“We didn’t do nothing, Mama.” Hansel assures, flashing her a crooked grin. “Mommy and Daddy are just being dummies!”

“Mama, Mama, look!” Gretel interrupts, holding something up to Meta’s face with a giggle. “A message in a glass bottle. I wonder who it’s for~!”

 _Something’s wrong._ Malice murmurs in her heart. _Something’s very, very wrong._

“Let’s see, shall we?” Meta sing-songs, trying to defuse the tension in the air as she takes the bottle from Gretel’s hands and removes the lid. With an unassuming smile, she pulls out the piece of paper and unrolls it, holding it up for Adam and Eve to see.

But as she reads—not so much reads as stares in horror at, at—can they even be called words?!—the many, many meaningless numbers—a shudder runs down her spine.

Eve gasps. Adam lets out a stuttering breath.

And only Malice understands what the numbers say.

“What… is this…”

“What do you think, Mama?”

“What’s your answer, Mama?”

With menacing blue eyes too-wide and overbright, the twins cackle.

The darkness in the corners of the room shifts slightly.

_Watch out!_

With barely a split second to spare, Malice metaphysically shoves Meta aside in the confines of their mind-world and takes control, throwing up a shield of shadows around herself. Meta’s shouts of confusion echo in her head along with the ringing sound of the twins’ own shadows impacting her own grey with a sickening splat.

“Meta!” “Meta!”

Both Adam and Eve scream. The children’s laughter gets louder and louder. Meta screams at Malice to do something, _anything,_ and the burning blood pounding in her ears whispers at her to **_kill them,_** _**destroy the gods!**_ Malice’s head fills with unbearable noise, inside and out. And then—

The darkening dusk sky explodes into a bloody shade of red.

—Caritas—

The seconds tick cruelly by.

Eve claws desperately at the grey boundary separating her and Meta, eyes filling with overwhelmed tears as her fingernails turn bloody with the futility of her effort. Adam tries to take stock of the situation, glancing every which way in a vain hope of understanding the events that transpired.

Hansel and Gretel continue their brutal onslaught, advancing on Meta step by step by step, toothy smiles unwavering and blue eyes wide with undisguised glee.

Around them, the world becomes an imitation of the Hellish Yard.

“Something’s wrong with you, Mama!” Hansel screeches, pulling back a fist to punch the monochrome barrier, and a crack forms in the shifting greys. “You’re deviating from the script!”

“Did something happen to your programming?!” Gretel shrieks, winding up a kick that impacts the shield of shadows with a sound like breaking glass. “Did your HER contract a glitch?!”

“Hansel, Gretel, please!” Malice begs with Meta’s voice, straining with the effort to maintain the shadowy border protecting her. “Please, calm down! Stop! Stop!!!”

“The traitor…” “…Wants us to stop?!”

Sharing a sneer, Hansel and Gretel abruptly let up their assault, leaving Malice-as-Meta reeling with whiplash. She tumbles backward, Adam and Eve catching her in their arms just before her body hits the ground.

Eve cries out, enfolding Meta in a protective embrace. Adam moves to stand in front of them, warily eyeing the twins as he tries to shield the two women from harm.

“Look at them, protecting the fake…” “…They don’t even know the truth.”

Thrusting out both arms, Hansel summons up a swirling mass of shadows, grabbing Adam by the neck and hoisting him into the air. Gretel plants her hands on the floor, calling upon tendrils of darkness and grasping Eve’s legs, pulling her away.

“N-no…” Malice—Meta—the two-as-one chokes out, lying bruised and battered on the ground, unable to do anything but helplessly watch as her two beloved children torture the two people she loves. “Don’t—” Adam struggles and flails, fingers uselessly scratching at the tight hold on his throat cutting off his air. Eve screams herself hoarse, hands scrabbling to find purchase on the floorboards as she’s slowly dragged towards the roaring fireplace. “Please! STOP!!!”

Twin lights appear in the sky above.

A rapturous look of joy lights up the twins’ faces, both pairs of blue eyes turning toward the sky. The twinkling lights float gently downward. Hansel and Gretel unceremoniously let go of their shadows, hands reaching up for the twin lights.

And that’s when Meta and Malice see their chance.

Splitting into two, Meta launches herself forward, tackling her children and pushing them away from the lights, while Malice reforms into her body of darkness and falls back, quickly pulling Adam and Eve away.

But not quick enough.

“NO!”

Like shooting stars, the twin lights fall, right onto—right into Adam and Eve, dissipating into stardust and encasing them in soft light. Malice hisses, the glow eating away at her form, but only lets go of the two once she’s pulled them a fair distance away from Meta and the twins, who by now are thrashing wildly in their mother’s grip.

“Listen to me,” with a trembling voice, Malice instructs Adam and Eve, who stare up at her with fear and awe, “go the neighbouring town, find a Netsuma man named Cagliostro. Tell them Meta sent you. Go!”

“Wai… wait!” Eve makes to grab Malice’s arm, but finds herself blocked by another shield of shifting grey. Malice grunts with the effort of expanding the last of her magic reserves, fingers flexing as she forms the barrier, then shapes it into a bubble containing Meta, the twins, and herself. Adam joins his wife, pounding at the shadowy wall with a frantic look on his face. “Who are you?!”

“Something that shouldn’t exist!” Malice snaps, sticky ichor dripping from flickering white. “A failure of a demon!”

“Demon?!” Eve gasps. Adam snarls, “Let us in there!”

“No!”

“Why?!” The two cry in unison.

The black tears flow.

“—Because Meta loves you!” The words fly out too fast for her to stop, so Malice pushes on instead, baring her teeth and her heart. “Meta loves you! And I love her! And we’re going to protect you, no matter what! Because I AM HER! AND I LOVE YOU TOO! NOW GO!!!”

A strangled sob escapes Eve’s lips. Without another word, she turns on her heel and flees into the forest. Adam lingers just a moment longer to give Malice a pleading look, before turning around and chasing after his wife.

A scream resounds through the air.

A sharp pain stabs her through the heart.

Malice looks down. There’s a bulbous, wriggling mass of darkness speared through her chest. Ichor bubbles up her throat and spills freely from her lips. She collapses to her knees. The scent of burning flesh invades her nostrils. Malice cranes her head, and catches a glimpse of Meta reaching out to her, engulfed by the fireplace’s flames. Hansel and Gretel’s crazed smiles. The red sky. The burning blood ringing in her ears like buzzing static.

And then.

Nothing.

* * *

She was virtuous.

She refrained from indulging in love.

She learned to control the shadows.

She was humble and accepted her faults.

She worked diligently to become a better person.

And she was kind to those who had suffered.

Eventually, her patience was rewarded,

And then—to protect those dear to her, she performed the ultimate sacrifice.

* * *

The fire crackles merrily in the hearth, sending embers into the sky like stardust.

Hansel and Gretel stare at nothing in particular, lost in their thoughts.

Spread out in front of them…

A glass locket, an ornamented mask, a silver spoon, a pocket watch, and a charred gold ring.

“Gretel, are we going to die after this?”

“Yes, Hansel. We’ll die like the rest of them.”

“Gretel, we’re not going to reincarnate, are we?”

“No, Hansel. They stole the fragments of god from us.”

“Gretel, I’m scared.”

“...I’m scared, too.”

“…”

“…”

“…Gretel?”

“Yes?”

“Let’s go find our real father.”

“…”

Gretel smiles, reaching for the silver spoon and holding it up to the firelight. Hansel pouts, gathering up the rest of the things and hugging them close to his chest.

“Be a little more patient, Hansel. We don’t need to find him.”

“Why?”

“Because—”

A familiarly unfamiliar voice rings out, barely above a whisper.

“I am already here.”

For a moment, the forest falls eerily silent.

A man steps out from the cover of darkness into the warm light of the fireplace.

Hansel and Gretel break out in wide grins, shakily getting to their feet.

“Welcome home…” “…Papa.”

“Finally. Now, my dear children,”

Seth Twiright smiles, holding out his hands.

“Shall we begin?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the nice comments!! i swear when i first read them i had to roll around on my bed for a good bit, ehee. im pushing out a chapter before finals and internship starts!! trying to mess around with writing styles, dont know if i made it worse, writing action scenes suuuuck;; thank you to my beta who made some time in their busy schedule to not only proofread this chapter but also provide the art!
> 
> as always, kudos and comments would be greatly appreciated!


	6. rerum cognoscere causas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude within the story, and a story within the interlude within the story.

> Astra Inclinant: Play Interlude

“What.”

The narrative—because a comprehensive omniscient narrative does exist apparently—abruptly stops focusing on the ominous reunion taking place in the heart of the forest, and the metaphorical camera recording the events that transpire instead pans up, up, up through the red sky… aaand there’s the moon. _Woah_ , turn down the brightness of the screen a bit. Don’t want to blind yourself there.

The camera zooms in on the bright, mysterious beacon of magic and madness and mythology and, and, and mysticality and—other fake-sounding words that start with the letter ‘M’ that you can’t be bothered to think up right now. You’re fairly sure that _mysticality_ isn’t even a real word, but hey! Looks like it’s a real word, starting three seconds ago!

So you declare.

Okay, enough faffing about. Both your patience and the amount of rice left in your bowl are running dangerously low, not helped by the revelation that apparently! Apparently!!! Seth-fucking-Twiright not only is alive, but he’s also alive _down there_! _On the **surface world**_! Free to wreak havoc and mess around and… do whatever it is he does, which probably involves making things terrible for everything and everyone involved in his malicious, psychopathic schemes.

Probably also involves making artificial ghoul-babies or whatever.

Eurghhh.

You never really understood his obsession with creating what you can only deem as purposefully-shoddy ripoffs of Behemo’s prized creation.

“What?!”

You loudly and angrily announce your confusion once more for good measure, before ripping the Akashic Recorder off your head and slamming it on the table—er, carefully placing it back on the table. _Nice and easy_. There we go! No point in damaging useful, expensive lab equipment, after all.

Instantly, you feel the daggers being glared into the back of your neck reduce in intensity, replaced by only slightly annoyed disapproval.

“Indeed. Disheartening, isn’t it? All our efforts to ensure the creation of a new world free from HER influence, and yet _there he is_. A constant thorn in our side. A spanner in our works. A sheep in wolf’s clothing. A catcher in the rye—”

“Yes, _yes_. I get it. You’re pissed that he managed to sneak onto Climb One and is now fucking with your beloved thousand-year project. Wait—hang on. That last one doesn’t even make any fucking sense. Is that a literary reference?”

“Mind your language, please.”

Thankfully, the only other person in the featureless, white-walled room stops his righteous tirade before it gets too heavy-handed and overzealous and, frankly, impossible to follow, and exchanges the almost-empty bowl of rice in front of you for a generously-filled, freshly-prepared, steaming bowl of fluffy white goodness piled high and—

“You’re drooling. Again.”

“Gah! Sorry. Or, I _would_ be sorry if I actually _was_ , which I’m _not_ , for the record. You’re the one who locked me in this room in the first place.”

“And yet you’ve made no effort to escape. Which, you can’t. Because this room isn’t even locked. You _are_ allowed to take a break and go outside, you know? Feel free to open the door, get some fresh air. Maybe a little exercise would do you some good? To counter all the food you’ve been shoving down your gullet at any given moment? This pocket dimension _can_ wait for your return. Because it is _literally_ removed from time. Because that’s what the point of all this is? To allow _you_ all the, pardon me for the pun, _time_ in the world to review a millennia’s worth of history, so that you can form a hypothesis and carry out an experiment that will hopefully culminate in HER eradication, thus allowing us to enjoy the metaphorical fruits of our harvest in the shape of a figurative new world without HER?”

What a long, boring rant. That last sentence in particular. So run-on. So many commas. The pun in the middle wasn’t even that good. You’re not sure if it even qualifies as a pun, to be honest. You roll your eyes as hard as you can all the while. You give yourself a slight headache as you do so. Your wars of wit and squabbles of sarcasm and duels of dry humour with this guy tend to result in that outcome, most of the time.

Your—friend? acquaintance? companion?—gives you a pat on the shoulder, signalling that all—or at least, _most_ of his words were said in jest, and. Yeah. You can’t really stay mad at him for so long, especially considering the current circumstances you’re both stranded in.

“Sorry. I’m just,” grumbling, you give yourself a few hard knocks on the forehead, stopped only when your hand is physically restrained from continuing your minor self-inflicted self-harm by the only other being in the room, “Trying my best, you know? I really am, but I’m not good at this stuff. This… wasn’t my specialty, back in our world. And the _voices_! God, they’re insufferable. Destroy this, kill that, rip everything apart, can’t go three heartbeats without that _damnable_ HER whispering in my ears, telling me to strangle you.”

“I know.” Your—colleague, yes, _that’s_ the word you’re looking for—emphatically nods. He lets go of your hand, and slides into the chair next to yours. “And I don’t blame you for your adversarial outbursts. That’s the fault of HER, not you.”

“It’s just. So hard. I’m good at biotechnology! I’m really, really good at that! Not… this. Even though, this could, possibly be classified, under the wide umbrella that, the term biotechnology signifies? Maybe? I guess? Because HER is, ultimately, a genetic disease that originated as a computer virus, thus being a combination of both biology and technology? Ergo, it technically should fall under my jurisdiction of biotechnology? In some weird, twisted way? Does that make sense? Am I making any sense?”

You ball up your fists, clench the fabric of your shirt. Frustration wells up from deep inside you, squeezing hard at your throat and your heart.

“Hey, in fact, let’s ignore all that pointless rambling that probably makes no sense and stab right into the real heart of the matter! Which is… what were our progenitors thinking?! Making highly-advanced, complex computer simulations capable of real thought and emotions, then injecting a virus embodying the abstract concept of ‘malice’ into our code, simply because they were too afraid that their own creation would surpass them entirely, evolving beyond our programming to become our own existences independent of their input and far removed from our original purpose as videogame constructs serving as virtual avatars for the gamers to immerse themselves in the fake world they’ve created? A world that, to them, is nothing but a pale imitation of their own, but to us is our one and only home?!”

No. You’re _not_ going to cry. Nope. Come _on_. You’re a grown-ass adult. You _really_ don’t need to open up the waterworks. No way.

“God, I just—can’t—I wish—if only—”

The traitorous sniffles escape you anyway.

Fuck.

Fuck, shit, fuck _fuck **fuck**_.

Goddamnit.

You can’t do anything right, can you?!

Unsurprisingly, your colleague starts to rub gentle circles on your back in a pitiful attempt at comforting you. What a guy. What a pal. And as awkward as it is, and as much as the burning blood whispering things in your ears protests, your skin crawling with disgust at his touch, it really _does_ help. In a way. The repetitive motion grounds you, keeps you in the here and now. And as an added plus, it gives you a short reprieve from HER whispers, since it’s too busy voicing voiceless complaints about the inherent weakness in performing public displays of _kindness_ and _caring_ and _platonic affection_ , ugh.

You hunch forward a little, taking deep breaths like how you used to advice your cousin to do when she—he! he!!!—felt one of his panic attacks coming on, back then.

One— _breathe in_ —two— _hold_ —three— _breathe out_ —repeat.

Three beats, repeated three times, repeated three times again. Three to the third power. Three cubed. Three-dimensional cubes, which is a _redundant_ statement, because a cube is already 3D.

Bluh. Let’s not even think about what a theoretical (3^3)th dimension would be like. In fact, thinking about any numbered dimension further than the 7th is just asking for madness. Like,

3? Sure, it’s a leisurely drive down the road of normalcy.

4? Go right ahead, play it fast and loose with spacetime.

5? Pushing the lightspeed limit a little, but it’s still doable.

6? Hey there, ease up on that gas pedal a bit before the laws of physics catch up with you and the interdimensional cops get all up in your nuclear fission reactor.

7? You should probably hit the brakes and stop before you go careening past the event horizon, straight into Schrödinger’s state of simultaneous quantum existence-and-nonexistence. You never liked that guy. No one person should be given that many dead-or-alive cats to take care of. It’s too much power and responsibility and cat food. Besides, you’re allergic. Er, to bullshit science theories, of course. Not cats. You love cats.

You continue the aimless thoughts and breathing exercise for 33 reiterations, counting the numbers in your head all the while, until you feel some semblance of stability return to your mental faculties. Your colleague, sensing the change in atmosphere, pulls away, but not _too_ far. Just keeping a respectful distance. One corner of your mouth lifts a little in a small half-smile. He always did respect people’s boundaries, and now seems no different.

“I’m—I’m fine now. I’m good.” You half-lie, a bad habit you can’t seem to kick, leaning back in your seat and ignoring the urge to indulge in another bad habit you can’t seem to kick, which involves kicking up your feet onto the table. “But I… don’t really feel up for more history lessons for now. If that’s okay?”

“It’s alright. There’s no need to push yourself too hard. We will get through this together.”

You open your mouth to mumble out another heartfelt expression of gratitude, but the emotional sanctity of the moment is dashed completely against the rocks of absolute derailment by the embarrassingly loud, almost _obscene_ growling noise suddenly emanating from your stomach.

“Oh, damnit.” You groan, double-facepalming-combo to hide the bright shade of red that your cheeks have definitely become tinted by. Your shame is perpetrated further by the hearty laugh indulged in by your colleague, good-natured and not at your expense it may be. “Ugh. Will I ever NOT be hungry?! Damn HER.”

“Come on. Eat up, before the rice gets cold.” Your colleague insists, once his laughter dies down, nudging the bowl of steaming rice a little closer to you. You concede, wrapping your hands around the bowl and relishing the heat. _Ohhh yeahhh_ , you can’t wait to pop a spoonful of that _fluffy white goodness_ into your gluttonous maw.

“Hm… since you’re taking a break from reviewing, why don’t I give you a quick rundown of the events that directly transpire from the moment you’ve just perceived?”

A tempting offer indeed. But, _see_ , you’ve already started to chew on a pretty big mouthful of rice, and it’s taking up all your attention to not devolve into a trance where you methodically eat your meal spoon by spoon by spoon with little-to-no awareness of your surroundings, and—you’re not listening anymore, are you? _A-yup_. Off you go.

With a chuckle at your ecstatically smiling-while-chewing, squinty-eyed blissed-out face, your colleague launches into his other favourite pastime besides tending to the rice fields: storytelling.

> Astra Inclinant: Interlude: Play Chrono Story

The Mother-to-Be, deceived by Her Whisper and His Words, unleashes Sin in an Act that brings forth the Catastrophe, a disaster so great that the skies across Evillious bleed red in pain and sorrow.

From the remnants of the ark Sin, the Sorceress of Time is given a second chance to atone for her crimes. The Fallen Angels imprisoned within the ark are released from their prison, and scatter throughout the world to carry out their Purpose.

From the ashes of the Magic Kingdom, a great and powerful Evil is revived and, blinded by Wrath, vows Revenge upon the Sorceress of Time.

The Virgin Mother dies, and so does her Demon, by the hand of the two Forbidden Fruits. Through a Re_Birthday called forth by the Forbidden Fruits, the Virgin Mother’s soul is split into Seven Virtues and taken in by Seven Vessels, cast out into the world to aid the Fallen Angels in their Purpose.

The Southern Star and the New Moon receive the Fragments of God, and escape the Heart of the Forest, seeking the Red Sun. As each come from families both shattered and linked by the Virgin Mother, each sought comfort in the other, and thus the three deigned to form a family whole once more, the Star and the Moon taking the Sun as their newest and final child.

The Sorceress of Time, after years of wandering and giving aid where she can, decides to seek the counsel of the great Millennium Tree residing in the Heart of the Forest. The Millennium Tree delegates to her the Quest of retrieving the Seven Vessels and keeping them out of Evil’s reach, for surely Evil would destroy the Seven Vessels in a bid to erase the influence of the Virgin Mother’s Seven Virtues from the Third Period.

> Astra Inclinant: Interlude: Pause Chrono Story

“Millennium Tree? Is _that_ the name Professor Yggdra’s going by these days? How’s the old man doing, anyway?” You interrupt, waving your eating utensils around and nearly knocking over the almost-empty-again bowl. You’ve always had another bad habit of emphasizing your words with wild gestures. Come to think of it, almost all your habits are bad in some way or another. Huh.

Your colleague gives you _The Look_ , not only because you interrupted him and nearly knocked over your food, but also because you’re _talking with your mouth full_ and he’s a stickler for the _rules_. Any and _every_ rule conceivable, modern and arcane alike, and even some you think he just plain made up on his own, simply to fuck with people.

Meh, you’ve never been one to care much about table etiquette. Or other people’s opinions about you. But you still swallow your mouthful and repeat your questions again, if only to stop him from continuing to give you _The Look_.

“Yes,” he answers drily, nudging the bowl away from the table’s edge to reduce the chances of its fall, “That’s the name and form we agreed upon for his reincarnation on the surface world. To answer your other question, he’s doing relatively fine. Maybe a little more tired and irritable than usual, but I suppose that comes with the territory of having to take care of all the dead—uh, _forest spirits_ by himself.”

“Haha, _yeah_.” You laugh a little, picturing the scene in your mind’s eye. “Like a teacher at school in charge of a class full of students. A looot of students. 62 of them, right?”

“Indeed. And some of them more mischievous than the rest.” Your colleague sighs with exasperation. “Remember when Michaela told Eve to stay home, instead of venturing into the forest? And how she saved Meta from her pursuers? A clear breach of the rules I’ve set for the Third Period: do not meddle in the affairs of humans. And yet, Held did _not_ exile her for her actions. He has too much of a soft spot for that child. And _that child_ has too much of a soft spot for humans.”

“Mm,” You hum your agreement. “You know, Gumillia probably stood up for her too. Thick as thieves, those two. And it doesn’t seem like you’re all that upset with her, either.”

“…I know. We all know.” A long-suffering sigh, followed by a resigned chuckle of amusement. “It seems that the Arklow siblings have a certain charm to both of them. I can’t deny that Michaela’s cuteness and Lich’s charisma have softened and swayed my stance on some things. Especially when the both of them conspire to use said cuteness and charisma against me all at once.”

The flow of conversation comes to a natural lull. A comfortable, amicable silence passes between the two of you. You take the opportunity to finish your meal and sort out your thoughts. Given the chance to recollect, the wellbeing of a certain individual in particular sticks out in your mind.

“…Hey, speaking of the forest spirits. How’s Esabel—I mean, _Eater_? How’s he doing, down there?” You ask, drumming your fingers on the table. “I hope he’s okay. He’s not in trouble or anything, is he?”

“Calm down. Your cousin is just fine.” Your colleague replies, gently. “He and Lich are inseparable, nowadays. And he’s even made friends with Michaela and Gumillia. Michaela in particular, because they both share similar experiences in matters pertaining to their gender dysphoria. It bothers them less now, since they’ve reincarnated as forest spirits that have no notion of the human gender binary.”

“Good, good. That’s… that’s good.” A little chuckle escapes your lips. “I’m happy for him. His parents… never really accepted that, so. I’m, glad, that he has friends to support him. People to, to accept him, for who he is. Ugh, sorry for being such an emotional wreck,” you groan, shaking your head to clear out the fog, “I, just, words are hard, and he—”

“No, I understand. He’s important to you, being the only family you have left. Don’t worry. Held is looking after him. If it will ease any doubts you have, whenever I descend to the surface world, I will personally keep an eye out for him myself.”

God, how _magnanimous_ can this dude get?! When he’s not being _a complete stick-in-the-mud_ or alternatively _dripping with sarcasm_ , that is. You stifle a sob threatening to spill and give your colleague a shaky smile. Hellish Yard, you even throw in a thumbs-up for good measure.

“Nah, I’m good,” you half-lie again, reaching for the Akashic Recorder and strapping it back around your head. Welp, wrong thing to say. You can almost _taste_ the concern and worry rolling off your colleague in waves. Pretty sweet, actually. Like, _actually_ sweet. Like sugar. Or rice crackers? Mmm.

—You’re getting distracted again, aren’t you. And you just ate, for Heavenly Yard’s sake!

“No, really. I’m fine. I can’t keep stalling forever. We’ve each got our own part to play, right?”

“…Of course. I’ll get you another bowl of rice before I leave. My offer still stands.”

“And my answer remains the same. I’m going to stay right here and solve this puzzle, Hazuki. I’m going to crack this case wide open, I promise.”

“I know you’ll do your best… Vlad. Well then, I’m off.”

You wait a few more seconds, before you hear the sound of a door creaking open and shut, once, twice, thrice, and then. Silence. You fiddle with the knobs and buttons on the Recorder, setting the scene displayed on its screen to where you had just left off earlier.

You feel a wide, toothy grin split your face, the blood pumping through your veins as you psyche yourself up to solve the mystery of the millennia. You crack your knuckles, just to set the mood a little bit more.

Alright. Time to do the protagonist-monologue-against-the-final-boss shtick. Maybe tack on a little videogame reference at the end, heh.

HER might be a curse, but it will also be its own undoing. With the one thing that fuels its hosts to carry out its programmed purpose, you will reverse-engineer its rise to establish its downfall and ensure the survival of your people in one way or another. You will take its spite against the world, and turn it into spite against itself. Through HER power to bring things to an end, you will create the power to bring an end to HER.

You are filled.

With **D E T E R M I N A T I O N** .

And now…

You’ve got a thousand years or so of history to review, the code of a malicious genetic syndrome-slash-destructive computer virus to crack, and a vaccine-antivirus-all-in-one-package to mass-manufacture and distribute.

#  [[ End of Act 0 ]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UErN9A9B02g)

> Astra Inclinant: Load Act 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE UPDATE!!! :DD
> 
> i really am sorry for this chapter. and. im also not. because this chapter is Important for setting things up and also i really like the god-kin in evichro. i wish we coulda had more of them! aaand since vlad tuberci got to exist as a demon for all of 2 sin arcs before banica ate him, ive decided to make him the deuteragonist for this side of the story! err, and not as a demon of course. and, its also a fun little break from all the tragedy of the previous chapter. cut me some slack, dudes, i like some silly fun times too.
> 
> also yeaaaaAAAAHHHHH trans girl michaela and trans boy eater!!! and supportive gumillia and lich!!! and vlad too!!! held is there too i guess!!! woooo!!! happier stories for everyone!!!
> 
> until we get to the part where (spoilers) (spoilers) (spoilers) ofc *ironic wink wonk double pistols*


	7. Cherubim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love, in all its forms, is the lifeblood of humankind.

_Dear diary._

_This morning, the skies were as grey and overcast as usual. The kind guard in charge of ~~the attic~~ my  _ _bedroom told me that little brother intends to sneak me out again tonight. As always, I am ever grateful to him. Whenever I am with him and Gumina, I can almost pretend that I am as normal as everyone else. I wonder where he will take us, this time?_

_I suppose I must go and fetch the cloaks we are to wear. They are rather stiff and uncomfortable, but it is a small price to pay for the disguise they provide. Sateriasis has no need for such, but he wears one nonetheless, despite his constant complaints of the coarse material. I think he does it simply because he does not want me to feel too conspicuous. He troubles himself too much over me._

_My feelings for Gumina have grown ever stronger as of late, I must admit. Does he know? I do not wish to break his heart_ ~~_or their engagement_ ~~ _. But it is getting more and more difficult to ignore this ~~love~~ longing. _

~~_Does she know?_ ~~

_Sateriasis and Gumina are both very important to me._ ~~_I love them both very much_ ~~ _I do not wish to hurt either of them. Sati has done so much for me by allowing me to enjoy glimpses of a normal life, and Mina has done her best to treat me much more kindly than I surely deserve._

 _I must go, I can hear_ ~~_Fath_ ~~ _Duke Venomania calling for me._

_—C_

* * *

The door opens with a creak. The servant jumps in his seat, hastily snapping the book in his hands shut. He releases the breath he was holding when he sees that it is merely the guard poking his head into the room, a kindly smile on his face like always.

“You might want to hurry, young master.” The old man says, an urgency in his voice that further amplifies his ward’s panicked state. “The Duke seems crosser than usual.”

“Y-yes, of course.” Stammering, the servant checks himself over, making sure that he is at the very least presentable if not up to the Duke’s exacting standards (which he _never_ will be, he bitterly thinks). He moves for the door, casting one last look behind him before he leaves the attic.

“Be safe, Cherubim.” The guard whispers, watching him go. He holds up a hand, and smiles as a little bluebird flies out from the young man’s room, perching on his palm. “It would be a shame if something happened to you, after everything I’ve done for you.”

The bluebird twitters, preening its feathers before taking flight once more. It trails after the servant, keeping a fair distance between them so as to remain unnoticed.

Shaking his head, the guard makes his exit as well, heading to a far more luxurious section of the mansion. Once he’s found the door he’s looking for, he gives the polished wood a few light knocks.

“What is it?” An impatient-sounding voice calls out from within the room, muffled through the door. “I’m a little busy right now.”

“A little bluebird told me that the dear cherub might be in trouble again.”

“Oh, Mr. Chirclatia! I’ll be right there.”

After a moment, the door swings open, leaving the guard face-to-face with none other than Sateriasis Venomania himself. The young man grins, but his face falls slightly when a loud shout rings through the mansion, followed by what sounds like shattering glass.

“Poor Cheri…” Sateriasis says with a sigh. “When will Father ever give him a break? He has done no harm!”

“You know as much as I do what the Duke thinks of your brother.” The guard replies, crossing his arms. “And no one would dare go against the Duke himself.”

“Well, yes. But,” the grin slithers back onto the young man’s lips, crooked and sly. “It’s not going against Father if he knows nothing about it, right? I’m going to take him someplace nice tonight, maybe go somewhere he’s never been to before. Gumina suggested bringing him to the workshop street. I don’t see why not; there are many things to see there.”

“Sounds like a good time to be had.” Mr. Chirclatia concedes, inclining his head in agreement. “I must thank you again, young master, for being so hospitable to Cherubim. Anyone can see that he’s truly becoming happier by the day, even if just by a miniscule amount.”

The grin softens into something gentle, almost bittersweet.

“It is you who I should be thanking, Mr. Chirclatia.” Sateriasis counters, “I wouldn’t have known of Cherubim at all, if it weren’t for you bringing the matter of his existence to light. What a wretched ignorance I would have blissfully lived in, then, while Cherubim would have continued to suffer. I—” a sharp inhale, “I’d rather not think of what would have happened if things continued to be that way. So… for that, I’m truly grateful.”

“Ah, think nothing of it, young master.” With a quiet laugh, the old man waves a hand in dismissal. “It is not befitting of a person of high status to be thanking a lowly guard such as I. Come now, you should be readying yourself; it is almost time for dinner. Maybe your presence at the table will lift Cherubim’s spirits somewhat.”

“Of course. You are dismissed.”

“Then, I take my leave.”

* * *

Dinner is an awkward affair, as always.

Ilotte spends a majority of the time ordering Cherubim around, berating him for the smallest mistakes, and mocking everything about him. Sateriasis lavishes him with praise, gives him constant encouraging smiles, and at one point even invites him to sit down and dine with them at the table. Which does nothing more than get him a stuttering, polite refusal from the servant, and an icy, disapproving glare from his father.

Everyone else just quietly eats and tries their best to ignore them.

It’s a song and dance he’s far used to by now. In fact, Sateriasis finds himself missing the times when he had shouting matches with his father almost daily, a debacle that often brought the entire household into an uproar. But he had stopped indulging in that particular habit when it became obvious that the Duke aimed the brunt of his anger at Cherubim, despite it being Sateriasis who crossed him.

For a good week or so after that, the guilt drove Sateriasis to try and make up for it, which resulted in Cherubim having the best midnight snacks he’s ever had in his life. And of course he forgave his little brother easily; the fallout from his actions wasn’t intentional, after all.

Dinner finishes, and the servants start clearing away the dishes. Making sure that the Duke wouldn’t catch him, Sateriasis slips into the kitchen, seeking out his brother among the many other people busying themselves with their tasks. Simple enough when everyone else gives the young man a wide berth, allowing him to make his way through the crowd with ease.

“Cheri! Cheri,” he calls out, grabbing Cherubim’s shoulder when he passes by. “Get the cloaks. After that, meet me by the drawing room. We leave in ten minutes.”

Cherubim doesn’t reply, but the nod and grateful smile he gives to Sateriasis is answer enough. He lets go of his brother’s shoulder, then makes his way to his own rooms.

The guard is there, standing just outside his door, the bluebird perched on his shoulder. Sateriasis inclines his head in acknowledgement, extending a hand to pat the bluebird which trills brightly at his touch.

“I’ve made the bed so that it looks like the dear cherub is fast asleep under the covers, as we agreed. Nobody will suspect a thing.”

“Good, good.” Sateriasis nods, leaning against the door. “Though I sincerely doubt anyone would go up there to check. Nothing wrong with being prepared, anyway. And I wouldn’t want to worry Cheri or give him any more trouble than he already has on his plate.” His words are full of warmth, and his eyes sparkle with fondness. “…I just want him to know that he’s loved. I love him dearly, and… Gumina does, too.”

The guard says nothing, only regarding Sateriasis out of the corner of his eye. Then, he mutters something under his breath, the words too quiet for Sateriasis to catch.

“—Come,” at last, the guard speaks up. “Let’s not keep the dear cherub waiting. You should go on ahead; I won’t be far behind.”

“Alright. You’re not going to come with us, to keep an eye on things?” Sateriasis smiles. The guard chuckles, stroking the bluebird’s head with a finger. The bluebird chirps, cocking its head to stare at Sateriasis with a black, beady eye.

“I won’t need to,” he laughs, callous and whimsical, “because I already know what's going to happen.”

* * *

They rendezvous with Gumina at the gates of the estate. Just like them, the noble Glassred daughter is garbed in a cloak of heavy cloth, her dainty figure practically dwarfed by the robes. By her side, similarly dressed, stands her loyal retainer Carol Shields, who greets them with a smile and a quick curtsy.

“Lovely as always, Mina. With how heavy that cloak looks, I won’t be surprised if you end up more physically fit than us boys.” Sateriasis teases. “Though I suppose you wouldn’t have any need for that; Miss Shields is already plenty strong enough.”

Gumina pouts, swatting at him with a hand that he playfully bats away. Carol giggles, long used to Sateriasis’s particular brand of flattery.

“Nice to see you too, Sati. And you as well, Cheri.” Lifting her hood a bit so that she can look up at their faces, Gumina smiles. “I’m glad it didn’t rain today, despite this morning’s grey skies.”

“Yes, and you certainly wouldn’t have liked it,” with a twinkle in his eyes, Sateriasis laughs. “What with the sound of the rain and all.”

“Indeed. Well…” Cocking her head, Gumina fixes Cherubim with a sweet smile. Cherubim smiles back, hesitant and unsure, and Gumina takes that as a small victory. “Let’s get going, shall we?”

“Of course, my lady!” Sateriasis exaggeratedly croons, his lips curling into a fond grin as well.

The four of them make their way to the workshop street, with Sateriasis taking the lead. Gumina discreetly holds Cherubim’s hand the whole way, and if Carol has any words to say about the impropriety of the act, she keeps it hidden behind a wry grin.

When they arrive, Cherubim is quickly overwhelmed by the sheer amount of things to see. The street is filled from end to end with artisans practicing their crafts and peddling their wares, calling out to passersby in hopes of making a sale.

“Wow…” he breathes, eagerly taking in the sights, not sure where to look. Sateriasis laughs and gives him a hearty pat on the back, a wide grin on his face.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” With one hand, he languidly gestures around them. “All these beautiful things, made by human hands. Our Asmodean craftsmen are the pride and joy of the Beelzenian Empire, I should say!”

“Humble as always, Sati.” Gumina chides, shaking her head. “Just show us to the doll workshop already. I know you want to head there; you’ve always had a fascination for those things.”

“Hey! There’s nothing wrong with liking dolls.” Now it’s Sateriasis’s turn to pout, putting on his most pitiable expression. Which only gets him an unladylike snort from both girls. “…Besides, watching a dollmaker at work is much more exciting than a painter painting paintings.”

Gumina mock-gasps, bringing both hands up to cover her mouth. “You take that back!” She cries out, before breaking down into laughter which is swiftly joined by Sateriasis’s own. Even Cherubim cracks a smile at their jests, lifting his bowed head just a little bit more as he relaxes in their presence.

“While I do think both dolls and paintings are good and all,” cutting in, Carol inclines her head at Cherubim, “I think it would be more prudent to ask the one who hasn’t been here before, what he would like to see?”

Both Sateriasis and Gumina’s expressions turn sheepish at Carol’s suggestion. Clearing his throat, Sateriasis turns to look at Cherubim, expression kind and gentle.

“Miss Shields is right. Never mind our preferences; what would _you_ like to see, Cheri?”

“I—um, I don’t… really, know,” Cherubim stammers, fidgeting. He looks over the street again, and something piques his interest. He points at a particular stall. “Oh, can we—can we go, there?”

The other three turn to look at where he had pointed. “A blacksmith’s shop? Hm, it looks like they’re specializing in swords.” Gumina wonders aloud, curling a finger under her chin. “I didn’t know you liked _that_ kind of thing, Cheri.”

All four of them make their way through the crowd, heading for the blacksmith. Once there, they share a polite greeting with the shop’s owner, and split ways to peruse the wares on display.

Cherubim looks through the many blades, and one in particular catches his eye. He stares it at, transfixed, until a sudden hand on his shoulder makes him jump in surprise.

“Whoa there, sorry if ah scared ya.” The blacksmith rears back, pulling his hand away. “Saw ya staring at that there katana. ‘s a fine one, ain’t it? Of a Jakokuese make, so ah heard.”

“Katana…? Jakokuese?” Cherubim asks, sounding out the unfamiliar words. “I’ve—never heard of that place, before. Is it far from here? Are all their swords like this one?”

“Whuh, ya never looked atta map before? Jakoku’s a faraway Eastern island nation, just off the side a’ Evillious.” The blacksmith explains, pleased to share his knowledge with someone interested in his craft. “And no, don’t think _all_ o’ their swords’re like this. But the katana’s my favourite type, see, ah’ve been studying this one in hopes a’ forging one o’ my own one day.”

“The sword isn’t yours then, I take it?” Sateriasis questions, having come over from the other side of the shop. Gumina and Carol follow some ways behind him. “Your accent also strikes me as quite peculiar. Are you not from here?”

“A-ha, got me there. Yours truly ‘s a Lioness man, a sailor ‘fore ah traded in the sea for the forge-fire.” The blacksmith winks, leans on the wall. “And nossir, din’t make the blade. Some trader found it somewhere someplace, sold it ‘ta me for scrap metal, but some days later a kindly old gent came by an’ told me what it is and how ‘ta fix it, so ah did. Glad ah din’t melt it down like ah wanted to.”

“It certainly is a strange-looking sword.” Gumina comments, appraising the sword with a critical eye. “But I do admit, it has a certain… elegant beauty to it. Some sort of— _aura_ , if you will.”

“Hahaha! Thank ye, missy.” Puffing up his chest with pride, the blacksmith lets out a booming laugh. “’s not often ah get a lass ‘ta praise my wares. Intrested in buyin’ it?”

“Hm. Well, I’m not, but,” turning to Cherubim, Gumina looks at him with a quirked eyebrow. “Are you interested in owning the katana, Cheri? You looked positively bewitched by it, just now.”

Cherubim jolts in place, a surprised smile lighting up his expression considerably. But after a moment, the grin falls off his face with a sigh.

“I don’t—I don’t think I can, afford it?” He dejectedly mumbles, knowing just how little his meagre savings are. “Even if… if I could, I didn’t. Um, bring any money.”

“Don’t you worry about that, Cheri.” With a pleased hum, Sateriasis pulls out a small leather satchel, the sound of coins jangling against each other tinkling in the air. “I was going to buy myself another doll, but—”

“—Oh, no, no, no! That won’t do.” Gumina butts in, taking out her own purse. “I wanted to get another painting for my collection, but it would be my pleasure to purchase this sword for you, Cheri.”

“N-no!” Cherubim blurts out, frantically looking between them before shrinking back in on himself. “I—I mean, you shouldn’t. Both, both of you. I can’t. Sati, Mina, I can’t—I can’t possibly pay you back! And, it’s fine, I don’t… I don’t need it. You shouldn’t, um. Waste money on, on someone. Like me…”

Sateriasis and Gumina share a pained look, a myriad emotions crossing their faces in the blink of an eye. Then, after giving each other a nod, Sateriasis puts a gentle hand on Cherubim’s shoulder, while Gumina laces one of her hands with his. They both fix him with equally intense yet gentle gazes, full of kindness and caring.

“Cheri, we’re not ‘wasting money’ by buying things for you.” Sateriasis starts, voice thick with emotion.

“And you don’t need to ‘pay us back’ for anything, Cheri.” Gumina adds, struggling to keep her tone level.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,”

“I think you’re a wonderful person,”

“Besides, we’re—”

“Brothers,”

“Friends,”

“Aren’t we?”

“So it’s fine if we get you a gift, right?”

“You deserve one.”

“You deserve so many things.”

“You deserve so much _better_ , Cheri.”

“A present is the least we can do…”

For a long moment, only silence passes between them, heavy and oppressive and suffocating.

Then, wordlessly, Cherubim shakes off his brother’s hand and untangles his fingers from Gumina’s. He hastily exits the shop, shoulders shaking. Sateriasis and Gumina watch him go, hands still stretched out where they had held him earlier, stunned.

The blacksmith, a sudden spectator to the events unfolding in front of him, shakes his head to clear it, as if rousing from a reverie. Then, he coughs and clears his throat, getting Sateriasis and Gumina’s attention.

“’s clear ta’ me that ya both’re plenty fond o’ the lad, tho’ he’s hard-pressed ta’ accept it. Mind telling me what’s got ‘im all worked up? Erh, if ah may ask.”

“He’s… not used to affection.” Sateriasis grimaces. “A rough upbringing—familial matters—I apologize. We can’t tell you much.”

“No, ‘s okay. Ah’m just being nosy.” The blacksmith nods, then gestures to the katana. “Tell ya what, since ya be getting the sword as a gift for ‘im, ah’ll cut ya a deal. Ah’ll take a third off o’ the price. The two a’ ya can figure out the rest between ya.”

“That can be easily arranged.” Pulling open the small satchel, Sateriasis agrees. “Shall we split even, Gumina?”

“Fine by me,” Gumina answers, starting to rummage in her purse. “Let me just—”

“My lady, if I may,” Carol interrupts, grabbing onto Sateriasis’s satchel and Gumina’s purse, “I will handle the payment process and such. I think it’s best if you go after him.”

“—O-of course!” Eyes widening, Gumina thrusts her purse into Carol’s hands and heads out the door. Sateriasis quickly does the same and follows after her, hot on her heels.

* * *

Cherubim runs. He doesn’t know where, his eyes are squeezed shut, but he runs. Somewhere. Anywhere.

As long as it’s away.

Away from what? Away from what? Away from _what_ …? Away _from_ …? _Away_ …?

He runs, breathless, hands over his eyes—the cloak flutters in the wind, the hood flies off his head—he trips on an uneven patch of cobblestone road, tumbling to the ground—ah, people are staring at him. Pointing fingers at him. He can’t see their faces—they’re probably staring at him with hateful faces. Hateful, disappointed faces. He can’t see, his vision is blurring. Tears, hot and bitter, trailing down his face—ah, he’s crying. Stop crying. Stop looking. Don’t look.

Don’t look.

Don’t look.

_Don’t._

**_Look._ **

“Cheri!” “Cheri!”

He can hear them. No, no, no _no_ ** _no_** , don’t look _don’t look_ **don’t look** **_DON’TLOOK_**. He scrambles backwards, hiding his ugly monstrous disgusting face behind his hands. They’re coming closer, he can hear them. They’re close. So close. Don’t come close. Don’t look.

Words. He hears words, in that familiar comforting baritone and that familiar soothing soprano. Familiar voices. They’re here, they’re here, don’t look. A pair of strong hands are helping him up, a soft touch on his burning hot skin.

“We’re sorry, we’re sorry, we didn’t mean to overwhelm you.”

They lead him to a nearby bench, they peel his own fingers off from where they’re clawing at his face, they’re there, they’re there and that’s more than enough. The stares from before are still there, but, but, but they’re lessened, they’re not hateful, nobody’s pointing fingers. It’s all just in his head? The hateful faces? Is it? There’s a hand on his back, rubbing circles and running up and down his spine. There’s a hand in his own, fingers lacing together and squeezing not too tight.

“It’s okay, Cheri. It’s alright, let it all out. We’re here.”

Ah, how embarrassing, he’s a grown adult and here he is crying, having a breakdown in public. The voices rebuke his self-deprecating words, gently, kindly, giving him words of comfort and care and he can’t hear them, he can’t, _can’t_ , **_can’t_ ** . He can, but the words aren’t making sense, but. He wraps himself up in their gentle, kind warmth, breathes in and out and _in and out and_ **_in and out_ ** until the tears stop falling and the shaking slows to an occasional tremble.

“Hey, hey, you’re alright now. You’re okay.”

He doesn’t know which one is speaking to him, their voices are melding together, a perfect harmony, and he hates that there’s even a shadow of hate, _of envy_ , **_of lust_ ** in him for that harmony, their harmony. They belong together, the two of them belong together and there’s no room for him in that perfect harmony. There’s no room for _him_ . Not _someone like him_ . Not someone _disgusting and monstrous and hateful like_ **_him_ **.

The hands grip tight, the words blur, the world blurs, his mouth moves but nothing comes out and stop _stop_ **_stop_ ** don’t ruin it _don’t ruin this harmony_ , just lock up those emotions in a box and throw away the key.

There’s no room for his emotions, there’s no room for _him_ but the longing in his heart hangs thick and heavy on his tongue and even though he tries his best to stop the words from escaping, his voice and his emotions pour out from his lips in a cascade and a confession and don’t look _don’t look_ **don’t look** **_don’t look_** at their disappointed hateful faces.

Ah, but he deserves it, doesn’t he? Their hatred, their disappointment.

So, despite every fibre of his being telling him not to.

He opens his eyes, just a tiny little bit.

And then.

He sees.

It’s his little brother’s face he sees first, Sateriasis gazing at him with worry and kindness and love, _love_ , **_love_ ** , there’s no trace of that hatefulness or disappointment the shadows in his mind had convinced him would be there. Only a warmth in his eyes and a smile on his lips, and he opens his mouth to say the words, “I know. I already know, Cheri. I know, and I don’t love you any less for it.”

And that alone would have brought more tears to his eyes, if it weren’t for the slight tightening of the hand over his own. Cherubim’s eyes open up more, trailing down to his hand and the fingers intertwined with his own, and he follows the pale expanse of skin up, up, up until he’s locking eyes with Gumina’s own.

And he sees her, Gumina, whose cheeks are tinted with red and whose lips are curled in a small smile, and she opens her mouth to say the words, “I know. I already know, Cheri. I love you too. _I love you too_.”

Cherubim says nothing, only closes his eyes and enjoys the gentle, kind warmth of their words and their hands in his own, wrapping himself up in the love, _love_ , **_love_ ** of the two most precious people to him in the world.

* * *

The three of them return to the gates of the Venomania estate, cutting short their planned excursion despite Cherubim’s half-hearted objections and reassurances that he’s fine, _really_. But Sateriasis and Gumina take one look at his pale, shaken face and his trembling hands, and they agree that it’s best for him to rest and recuperate.

Sateriasis has already made a plan to badger the Duke to give Cherubim a day off at the very least, and Gumina gives the plan her wholehearted approval. Cherubim can do nothing but sigh.

His little brother stands beside him, one arm slung comfortably around his shoulder, while Gumina holds one of his hands, worriedly looking at every passerby, searching for Carol who hasn’t caught up with them.

“She couldn’t have gotten lost, could she?” Gumina wonders aloud, eyebrows furrowed with concern. “She follows me everywhere; she should know her way back here.”

“Should I go look for her, then?” Sateriasis offers. “I’m worried. I know that she’s perfectly capable of defending herself in a fight, but still… a lady shouldn’t be out and about by herself in this time of night.”

“Dear gods, please let her be safe. Gods, what if,” gasping, Gumina’s eyes frantically widen, “what if some man is, is—taking advantage of her?! And we just left her back there, oh gods, please let my dear friend be safe!”

“I should go. I’m going to look for her. Cheri, Mina, stay here.”

But just as Sateriasis is about to leave, a familiar redhead hurries into view, hair dishevelled and face blotchy red with fatigue.

“Carol! What happened?” Gumina cries out, while Sateriasis rushes forward to catch Carol in his arms just as she’s about to collapse, a long bundle wrapped in cloth tumbling out of her hands.

“Nothing, my lady,” Carol pants, catching her breath, “just a pesky creature that wouldn’t leave me alone. After I left the shop, it started chasing me around and I couldn’t shake it off.”

“Goodness me! You poor thing,” Gumina tuts and frets, releasing Cherubim’s hand to hover over Carol. “Oh, you’ve even got a nasty cut on your cheek.”

“Huh, do I?” Carol mumbles, running her fingers over the wound and yelping at the stinging pain. “Ouch! I didn’t even notice, damned bluebird.”

“You should get that treated, quick.” Sateriasis advises, letting go of Carol once she’s steady on her feet. He picks up the bundle on the ground, unwrapping the cloth to reveal the katana. “Ah, the sword. Thank you for bringing it to us, Miss Shields. I’m sorry for the trouble it caused.”

“Oh, no trouble at all, my lord.” Carol answers, then sucks in a sharp inhale. “My lady, could we return home now? The night air isn’t being kind to my injury.”

“Of course, of course.” Gumina nods, waving goodbye to Sateriasis and Cherubim. “Until we meet again, Sati, Cheri.”

“Farewell, Mina.” Sateriasis calls out. Cherubim waves goodbye to her as well, his voice stuck in his throat from embarrassment and adoration. The two of them watch until Gumina and Carol are out of sight, before Sateriasis sighs, turning to regard Cherubim with a cheeky smile.

“You’re head over heels in love with her, aren’t you?” He teases, laughing softly at the bright red rising to Cherubim’s face.

“You’re not angry?”

“Angry…? Why would I be?”

“Because, you’re—you’re engaged to her!” Cherubim blurts out, then instantly looks away, wringing his hands. “I don’t, I don’t want to—ruin things between you.”

“Bah, to the Hellish Yard with the engagement.” Sateriasis spits, then sighs. “I’ve only ever seen her in a sisterly light, anyway. And I’m sure she feels the same way about me.”

Cherubim stays quiet, fidgeting under his brother’s gaze. Sateriasis sighs again.

“Hey. Hey, Cheri, look at me.” He says, gently. Slowly, Cherubim turns to lock eyes with him, expression tinged with fear and resignation and just that smallest flicker of hope. Sateriasis smiles. “I really do think Gumina loves you, you know? The way she looks at you, the way she talks to you. It’s not the same as when she’s with me.”

Seeing the doubt still lingering in Cherubim’s eyes, Sateriasis adds, “If it will make you feel better, Cheri. I’ll call off the engagement.”

“B-but…” Cherubim gasps, eyes wide, “Father will—!”

“Never mind what Father thinks!” Sateriasis insists, voice harsh. He sucks in a breath, exhales slowly, softens his tone. “Never mind what he thinks. What’s important is _your_ happiness, Cheri. I’ll make sure that he knows that this is all _my_ idea, so that he won’t blame you. He’s kept you _miserable_ for far too long. Now, I just want you to know that you’re _loved_ , Cheri. _You deserve to be happy_ . And if you can’t accept it, won’t accept it, I’ll keep saying it until you _do_ . Gumina _loves_ you, Cheri, and _I love you too_.”

Cherubim stares, speechless, before rushing forward and enfolding Sateriasis in a crushing hug. Sateriasis gasps, surprised, but returns the embrace as fiercely as Cherubim initiated it, rubbing comforting circles on his back when he feels a warm wetness leak onto his shoulder. Cherubim trembles in his brother’s arms, overwhelmed with emotion for the second time that night. The two of them spend a few more minutes like that, just holding each other and enjoying each other’s warmth, before Cherubim pulls away, wiping away the tears trailing down his cheeks.

“Thank you,” he whispers, gratefully, tearfully, full of love himself, “Sati, thank you, thank you, _thank you_.”

Sateriasis only smiles, his heart filled with immeasurable fondness, and holds out a hand which Cherubim tentatively takes in his own. The two of them make their way to the mansion’s entrance, but just as they’re about to pull open the doors—

The grand double doors slam open, revealing the furious face of Duke Ilotte Venomania, eyes burning with hatred.

Behind him, a familiar old man laughs, holding up a hand with a bluebird perched upon it.

“A little bluebird told me,” the guard cackles, glaring at Sateriasis with a wide, malicious grin nearly splitting his face in two, “That the dear cherub might be in trouble again!”

“Guard,” the Duke seethes, pointing at Cherubim, “throw this _demon_ back into his cell.”

Still laughing, the guard grabs hold of Cherubim’s arm and drags him away. Cherubim puts up a fight, but the old man is shockingly much stronger than he looks, and he’s forced off to the side. Sateriasis shouts for his brother, makes a move to pull him back, but the Duke gives him a slap hard enough that he’s thrown backwards with the force behind it.

Sateriasis tumbles to the ground, the sword slipping from his hand, slicing his palm open before clattering to the floor.

He hears Cherubim frantically scream his name, his voice fading away as he’s dragged into the basement.

He looks at the viscous liquid pooling in his hands, turning into a putrid shade of purple.

He stares at the moonlight glinting off the blade’s bloodstained edge.

He brings a hand to his mouth, lapping up the coppery liquid.

And then.

He sees.

Red.

Sateriasis laughs, long and low, the taste of blood on his lips sending a pleasant shudder down his spine, and as he grabs the bloodstained sword with his bloodstained hands, his eyes take on an eerie red glow, reflecting the pale moonlight, clouded over with a hazy fog of _bloodlust_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so we begin the lust arc, or in this case… ;)
> 
> mmmm, lunacy of duke venomania was always my least favourite sin song if only because i dont like mothy’s tuning of gakupo. but the story itself interests me a lot! cherubim and his tragic spiral downwards into madness, gumina and her admittedly badly thought out plan, even sateriasis being a good brother at the beginning, most of the characters are likable in some way (except fucking ILOTTE) and i wanted to keep and expand on their dynamic without the nasty romantic love triangle mess
> 
> also, id gladly let carol step on me hahahahaa
> 
> fic-wise, i think i maaay have screwed myself over by deciding to write this thing in present tense, i keep having to go back and forth over the word doc replacing the stray past or heck even future tensed words I overlooked. but hey, its a great exercise in writing. i think my english is improving immensely, esp considering its not my native language!
> 
> as always, huge thanks to my lovely beta who always makes time for my shenanigans and midnight rantings, and for the art! and thanks to you lovely readers for continuing with me on my rewrite journey~ im sorry for not always replying to your comments but i guarantee that i read each and every one of them and they always bring a huge goofy smile to my face
> 
> as always, let me know what you think of this chapter ;D


	8. Irina Clockworker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The paths diverge, the story branches; will they ever reunite?

_Find the Vessels of Virtue, and protect them from the hands of the great evil reborn._

The god’s words echo in her thoughts.

He had been surprised at her arrival in the heart of the forest. Of course, he had no reason to expect her there. But she had nothing else to do to while away her eternal time, until she remembered that. Yes, her sister was said to be communing with the supposedly evil forest god.

Sister. Sister-in-law. She doesn’t know how to refer to her, anymore.

So, with nothing else to lose, she went to the heretical forest god, fully expecting to be struck down the moment she stepped into his clearing. But the god had said nothing, only remained silent as he took in the sight of her. She, the one who caused the death of his loyal disciple. She, who had the blood of the entire Magic Kingdom on her hands.

And instead of the retribution she had expected,

_(that she hoped for)_

He had given her a chance to atone for her sins.

And, because she had nothing else to do,

In order to stave off eternal boredom,

Irina Clockworker said yes,

And accepted the quest.

Over the years, in her search for the Vessels, she had somehow gathered followers who wished to spread her doctrine of peace. They called her the “Great Witch of the North”, and strove to help her wherever and whenever they could. It was at the advice of one such adherent that she had come to Asmodean, in order to give aid to a village suffering from drought.

Now, she stands before the grand double doors of a mansion belonging to the local duke. She gazes at the locket clasped in her hand, at the moonlight reflected off the glass.

She has already found one Vessel. Now, to find someone willing to protect it.

Common people, farmers or labourers, cannot possibly keep such a precious item safe. No, she has to find someone powerful, someone influential. Someone who can keep it under lock and key. Someone strong and just, and with a good heart.

And, from what she has heard, the son of the duke would be one such candidate. A man who cared for all, even the lowliest of servants in his own household.

She knocks on the door, once, twice, thrice.

…Nothing.

Irina raises an eyebrow. Despite it being the middle of the night, surely there would be some people still awake? At the very least a servant, to shoo her away.

She knocks again, once, twice, thrice.

…Silence.

How strange.

She pulls on the door handles, and—it swings open with a loud creak. Unfastened. Unguarded? She gives the area around her a furtive glance. No signs of life whatsoever.

The redheaded mage steps into the entryway.

She stifles a gasp at the gruesome scene before her.

A body—a corpse, cut cleanly in half. The duke? Many more bodies, strewn about, blood everywhere. Servants, guards. Mangled, sliced apart, stabbed, brutally hacked into pieces. Blood, bone, flesh. Signs of a struggle. A complete massacre. Blood everywhere.

As if the one who performed the deed had intentionally cut the victims in the bloodiest way possible.

The coppery scent invades her nostrils, bombards her with unwanted memories, of holding a knife in her hands—no, no, no. No time for that. Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong.

She enters the building, stepping gingerly around the corpses, and strains her eyes. The world fades from her vision, leaving only the burning candle-flame of her soul-sight, flickering. Upstairs. She follows the faint light, finds herself heading towards the attic, and steps into the small, cramped room.

A young man, completely covered in blood, holds up a sword with the blade pointing downwards, the sharp tip pricking the base of his throat, drawing blood.

The memory from earlier flashes before her eyes again, clearer than ever, and before she knows it, she’s parting her lips, calling out,

“Stop!”

The man stills, turns to face her, slowly—his eyes are bloodshot, and there are tears streaming down his cheeks, mixed and mingling with coppery red. His eyebrows crease in confusion at the stranger in front of him, as if uncomprehending of her presence.

“Don’t do it, please.”

Irina lets her feet take her forward, lets her hands take the blade by the edge and lower it from the man’s chest, lets the blood run free down her fingers. Nothing but the memory propelling her forward, moving her along like a clockwork doll.

Yes, this is what Elluka did for her, right?

Yes, this is the right thing to do.

How poetic. How ironic. How cruel.

The gods must have a wicked sense of humour.

The man’s eyes are drawn to her hands, to the blood. He licks his lips, tasting blood, shudders, takes a step back, drops the sword.

“Stay—stay back.” He growls, staring at her with wild, pleading eyes. “Get away from me.”

“Let me help you.”

“Help me?” He barks out a laugh. The mirthless sound sends a chill down Irina’s spine. “Help me?!”

“Please, let me help you.”

The man drops to the floor, lets out a keening cry, cradles his head in his hands. He starts muttering something under his breath, the words so quiet that Irina has to draw herself closer to him to hear.

“I killed them, I killed _everyone_ , I _ripped them apart_ , I’m a monster, I’m a _demon_ , I should die, _die_ , **_DIE_** , diediedie—”

The words grow quieter, fading away entirely. Irina lowers herself to her knees, places her hands on the man’s own, pulls them away, curls a finger under his chin and tilts his head up so that they meet eye to eye.

“Please,” she repeats, one last time, “let me help you.”

Something in the other man crumbles, the red of his eyes fading into a dull, despairing purple. He closes his hand around the one caressing his face, and brokenly whispers,

“Please, help me.”

Irina smiles, taking back her hand. She stares searchingly into his eyes, an unspoken question on her lips.

“Help me,” he answers, his voice and his emotions pouring freely from his lips in a cascade and a confession, “lock away this ugly, monstrous _thing_ inside me. This lust for blood. These hands that have killed. The demon in my head.”

She nods, motioning for him to lower his head. As he does so, she hangs the glass locket around his neck, letting the open locket rest on his chest. He touches the locket with a hesitant hand, raises his gaze to meet hers.

“This will protect you from lustful thoughts,” she says, “and it will imprison your bloodlust for as long as you remain chaste. If you so desire… it can also alter memories, your memories, and the memories of those around you.”

Doubt tinges the man’s expression. He opens his mouth to object, but a voice cuts him off before the words can leave his lips.

**< Lge ag sj.>**

A voice in his head, loud and commanding.

**< Lsk wq xdsg gbyv lur.>**

“What—who’s that?” He nearly shouts, clapping his hands over his ears. “Who’s talking to me?!”

**< I iz xaq Arzev sd Cvujlqgy. Yan hvr lywz tm Lukm. Gqoc wn omiw. Gcgp wy ng fm. Gdzm xjzvpbcmvz hjqv bj qi.>**

“Why should I trust you?”

**< Lzemc xcmeehcmez ha qi.>**

The man is silent. Then, a laugh escapes his lips, continuing on higher and higher until it becomes a wailing scream. And almost abruptly as it started, the man stops screaming, head bowed low.

Irina does nothing but watch him with eyes full of pity.

“This is a trick, isn’t it? Some ploy of dark magic?” He mutters, clasping his hand tight around the locket. “You’re just a wicked witch with a wicked sense of humour, here to torture a man who’s lost his mind.”

“I assure you, I am anything but.” Irina gently insists. “Let me help you.”

**< Levzi. Io. Apc. Tm. Mx.>**

“…What’s the price I need to pay.”

Irina smiles.

**< Gpdr sx hti qehsktpg cwp auwa as qvmgv. Tpif, I qvuht tlvcqv ygyy Gynjkily Aokgz.>**

The man squeezes his eyes shut, recalling the memories to the forefront of his mind’s eye. Irina watches as a dull glow emits from the glass locket, slowly gaining intensity until its brightness envelops him whole, until she has to shield her eyes from the white light.

The Angel laughs.

The locket snaps shut with a resounding click.

**< Tti achklatw qs frgppk. Mc rcjxi iu rwmjw tz yvc pg usl eaqv.>**

* * *

Cherubim curls in on himself, huddling in the furthest corner of the prison cell, shivering from cold and fear. His eyes sting, burning, but he has no more tears left to cry.

In front of him, separated only by the iron bars of the cell, lies the dead body of the guard, blood leaking out of his still-grinning mouth.

He doesn’t know what had happened, to cause Sateriasis to snap. At first, he had screamed for his brother, seeing the blade cut open his palm. Then, he had screamed at the guard to let him out, to explain his traitorous act.

Then, he heard screams which weren’t his own.

He had asked the guard what had happened, and the old man only had time to smile and answer,

“My sweet little cherub… the gears of fate are beginning to turn—”

Before a sword found itself shoved through his chest, the blood from his punctured heart splattering onto Cherubim’s terrified face.

And when his body fell to the floor, Cherubim found himself face to face with none other than his precious little brother, Sateriasis.

With a smile nearly splitting his face in two.

Completely covered in _blood_.

Eyes glowing **_red_**.

Cherubim had blacked out from sheer fright at the sight, the last thing he heard being the bluebird’s warbling song, almost mocking with its proud tone, and when he woke up, his little brother had disappeared, leaving him alone in his cell.

And now, he doesn’t know what to do. What to even think.

He can’t break open the door, can’t squeeze between the bars, can’t pick the lock. His body is too weak, growing even weaker from lack of food and water and the cold stone floor chilling him to the bone. The guard’s corpse is too far out of reach, and even if it wasn’t he doesn’t think he can even stomach the sight of it, let alone search the body for a key.

So he waits. And _waits_. And **_waits_**.

Until the shock and fear and exhaustion catches up with him all at once, and he stumbles off the cliff of consciousness and falls down into the realm of troubled sleep.

* * *

Gumina doesn’t know what to do. What to even think.

She was the first to pick up on the screams coming from the Venomania estate, and had informed her father of the troubling noises. The Marquis had gathered a force of guards at her plea to investigate the screams, and had set off towards the Duke’s mansion, ordering her to stay home.

But in her fear and concern, she had donned her now-familiar cloak and, with the ever-loyal Carol by her side, made her own way to the estate.

Through her retainer’s knowledge of the back streets and alleyways of Asmodean, they arrive at the mansion a good half-hour before the marquis and his men will even set foot upon the estate, or so Carol estimates. Now, she stands among a sea of corpses, blood, bone, and flesh, in the mansion’s entryway.

“Gods…” Carol whispers, horrified. “Who could have done this? This is—this is a massacre.”

Gumina’s mind whirls, a thousand terrifying thoughts running through her head, but the first and foremost thing that comes to her is the question of Cherubim and Sateriasis’s safety.

“Cheri, Sati,” she breathes out, “where are they?”

Carol, seeing the expression on Gumina’s face, squares her shoulders and sets to work, picking through the corpses and determining their identities. Working quickly, she returns to Gumina’s side, placing a gentle hand on her friend’s shaking shoulder.

“None of them are the boys. I don’t know if there are more bodies in the other rooms, but—”

She cuts herself off, growing quiet. Gumina turns to look at her with pleading eyes, hands curling into fists, fingernails digging into the skin of her palms.

“I hear something,” Carol whispers, narrowing her eyes. “Downstairs.”

“The basement?” Gumina gasps, bringing a hand to her mouth. “Is Cheri locked up down there?!”

Carol pulls on Gumina’s arm, and the two of them rush down to the basement. Gumina cries out at the sight of Cherubim, tossing and turning in a fitful slumber, and makes her way to the wall of iron bars, banging uselessly on the metal poles and urging him to wake up. Carol kneels down by the sole corpse in the room, digging through the dead body’s pockets and fishing out a key. Hurrying to Gumina’s side, she unlocks the cell door and Gumina all but throws herself onto Cherubim, who jolts from his repose with a cry of terror.

“Cheri! Oh, Cheri, I’m so glad you’re safe!” She blubbers, wrapping her arms around Cherubim in a tight hug. Cherubim slowly calms down in her embrace, the violent tremors coming to a stop, and he fiercely returns the hug, almost crushing Gumina with his strength. Gumina gasps, gently prying herself out of his painful grasp, but stays close to him as his frantic breathing slows.

“Cherubim, what happened?” Carol asks, sinking to her knees beside the two. “Who did this?”

Cherubim stills, bowing his head low. The two girls wait for his answer, unbreathing, until he raises his gaze and looks at them with pained, fearful eyes.

“Sati,” he croaks, a lump in his throat. “Sati did this. Fath—the Duke found out, about, about us, and, he—something, in him, snapped. Sati must have, did this to, protect—to protect. Me.”

“The Duke found out about… who told him?” Gumina asks, angry tears welling up in her eyes. “Who would do such a thing?”

With a trembling finger, Cherubim points at the dead guard. “He did,” he manages to force out. “He, he told me—I think he, he knew that this whole, this whole thing was his—his plan.”

“He planned this?” Carol mutters, casting a wary eye at the corpse. “Why would he…”

Before she can get another word out, Carol falls silent, cocking her head to one side and squinting her eyes. Gumina and Cherubim give her confused looks, Gumina parting her lips to question her strange actions. But Carol raises a finger to her lips, and points to the ceiling above her.

Then, Gumina and Cherubim hear it.

Voices. The sound of heavy footsteps. Someone barking out orders to search the area.

The Marquis and his men are here.

“Damn,” Carol swears under her breath, “They’re quicker than I thought they’d be.”

“Cheri,” Gumina hisses, fingernails digging into his arm, “Where’s Sati now?”

“I don’t know!” He responds, frantic. “I fainted when I saw him, and when I woke up he was gone!”

“We can’t let my father know that he’s missing.” She mutters, giving Cherubim a side-eye glance. “Cheri, until we find him, you need to pretend to be Sati.”

“Wh-what? I can’t do that, my birth defect will give me away!” He vehemently objects, gesturing at his deformity. “And, and I don’t, know—I don’t know how to act like him!”

“You can hide it with your bangs like you always do! We can say that someone scarred your face, or something!” Gumina snaps, huffs in exasperation, blunts her sharp tone and gives Cherubim a pleading look. “Please, Cheri, you need to do this. We need to keep this under wraps, at least until we get Sati back. I can’t lose him, I won’t accept that he’s gone; he’s precious to me, too!”

Her words strike a chord in his heart. Yes, Gumina loves Sateriasis too, doesn’t she? Like siblings. Like brother and sister. His caring brother. His kind sweetheart. The two most precious people to him in the world.

“They’re here!” Carol warns, just a moment before a group of men barge into the basement, followed shortly by the Marquis himself.

“Gumina!” He booms, staring down at her with a stern expression. “What are you doing here? I told you to stay home! And… who is that man?!”

“F-Father!” Gumina stammers, giving Cherubim’s hand a comforting squeeze before she turns to face the Marquis. “I couldn’t—I couldn’t bring myself to stay home; I feared for my fiancée’s life! I wanted to make sure that he was safe, so I rushed here with Carol to find him!”

The Marquis narrows his eyes at her, then flicks his gaze over to Cherubim, who has a hand over his cheek, covering his chimeric second face.

“Then, you are… Lord Sateriasis? Are you hurt? Did the robbers harm you in any way?”

Cherubim glances at Gumina, who mouths out, ‘you can do it’. He glances at Carol, who discreetly nods her head in encouragement. He meets eyes with the Marquis, who, despite his harsh tone, looks at him with worry and concern.

And then, steeling his nerves, he puts on a cocky grin like the one he remembers his brother always wearing, and lets out a confident laugh.

“Don’t worry, they were no match for me.” He brags, getting to his feet and dusting off his shirt. “They did manage to put a scar on my beautiful face, but I paid them back for that ten times over and sent them running for their lives!”

“Well… alright,” the Marquis reluctantly concedes, quirking an eyebrow. “If… if you say so.”

Behind him, Gumina bends over to stifle a giggle. Carol has no such restraint and barks out a guffaw, immediately covering it up with a sheepish expression.

The Marquis’s expression turns sombre. “But I must give you my condolences, my duke. Your father, and the rest of the household, were slaughtered mercilessly. There are no traces of the attackers themselves. Robbers, I believe. I do not know what it is they sought, but their bloodlust is to such an extent I have never seen before in my life.”

“Ah, yes. That’s… right. They’re—my heart goes out to my family. They didn’t deserve such deaths.” Cherubim grimaces, unable to muster up much pity for the people that hated and shunned him. “Wait, did you just refer to me as—?”

“Yes.” Locking eyes with him, the Marquis declares, “Since your father, Ilotte, is dead, and you are the only heir to his bloodline—the illustrious position now belongs to you, Duke Sateriasis Venomania.”

Cherubim falters at the mention of his brother’s name. The Marquis, not noticing this, pushes on.

“But since this incident has most certainly left your psyche… and your face, apparently—scarred, in some way,” he purses his lips in distaste at the unwitting pun, “I suggest that you take a few days to rest and recuperate. I will take care of the responsibilities of your station until you are fit to resume them. Until then—Gumina!”

“Uwah! Um, yes, Father?” Gumina squeaks, standing to attention.

“I think it’s best if you and Carol stay with the Duke.” He orders, folding his hands across his chest. “Your presence will surely help him regain his bearings and bring him some comfort in the wake of this tragedy. I assume there are no objections?”

“N-no, none at all!”

“Good. Now then,” clapping a hand onto Cherubim’s shoulder, the Marquis fixes him with a sympathetic gaze, “Duke, I suggest you return to your quarters and take some time to recover from this. My men have already cleaned up your rooms; I estimate that the rest of the mansion will be cleared by tomorrow. You should think about hiring new servants to return the household to some semblance of order. Will you be alright?”

“I—yes, I think so,” Cherubim replies, faint. “Thank you for, your kindness, Marquis Glassred. I think, I’ll, return to my rooms, now. To, clean myself up. Get this blood off my face.”

The Marquis smiles, gives his shoulder a few pats, and retreats upstairs, his men following behind him. Cherubim, Gumina, and Carol watch them go, faces carefully blank, until they are certain that they are well and truly alone.

Gumina’s the first to break the awkward silence, giving Cherubim a wry grin. “‘My beautiful face’? Really? Is that what you think Sati thinks about all the time?”

“…To be fair, he does seem like the type.” Carol giggles, the tension bleeding from her shoulders.

Cherubim laughs along with them, then tapers off into a sigh.

“Sati, what happened to you? Where could you have gone?” He wonders aloud, staring into nothing. Gumina looks at him, determination sparking in her eyes.

“We’re going to find him.” She insists. “I know he’s out there, somewhere. We just need to find him, figure out what went wrong, and bring him back home.”

Cherubim smiles, heart full of fondness and warmth and love for the fiery girl in front of him and for the lost brother he’s sure—no, he _knows_ is still alive. He can feel it in his blood. Sateriasis is still alive, and he’s out there. Somewhere.

“Yes, we will.” He agrees, before his expression turns thoughtful. “But in the meantime, we have got to find a better way to hide my identity. I can’t very well keep holding my hand to my face every time I have to meet someone.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, _Duke Sateriasis_.” Carol butts in, breezily. “I’ve got just the perfect idea!”

“And that is…?”

The retainer’s eyes sparkle with excitement.

“Have you ever heard…” she says, dramatically drawing out the words, “of the Almoga Mobarez?”

* * *

Warm. It’s warm. Where… where is he?

The man slowly opens his eyes, head spinning with dizzy fatigue. His hands grasp at thick fabric, there’s a soft but firm surface under him. Blankets… he’s in a bed? Did he fall asleep?

He brings a hand to his throbbing temple, wincing at the pain and the ringing in his ears. Try as he might, he can’t recall any specific memory, the images in his mind’s eye blurred out and floating just out of his reach. His breathing quickens as he starts to panic, fingers twitching uselessly on the sheets.

Where is he? Why is he here? What time is it? What day is it? Why did he fall asleep? Why can’t he remember? Why can’t he remember? Why can’t he remember _anything_?

_…Who is he?_

“Hey, stop that.” A soft voice calls out, jolting him from his reverie. A pair of gentle hands carefully pry his fingers from where they’re fisted in his hair, lowering his hands to his lap. “You’re okay. You’re safe here.”

“Who… who am I?” He rasps out, raising his gaze to see the kind face of a girl with red hair, fixing him with a look of worry and concern. “Why can’t I remember who I am?”

“Huh…? The spell must have been too powerful—you wiped out more than just the memory you wanted to erase.” She mutters under her breath, curling a finger under her chin. She retrieves a book from the bedside table and places it on his lap, fingers brushing over the worn spine.

“I didn’t have time to ask for your name, back then,” the girl cryptically supplies in lieu of an answer, “So I don’t know who you are, either. But I did have time to grab this, before we—well, before we ended up here, through… circumstances I’d rather not say.”

He looks down at the book, scrutinizes the cover. “It’s… is it a diary? My diary?”

“I should hope so,” she answers, tilting her head aside. “Since it might be the only way to recover your memories. To clarify, I did not read it, so I don’t know what its contents are. But it was in the room you were in, so I assumed that it’s yours and took it with me when we… left.”

“My diary? Mine…” The man mutters, opening the book to the first page. He reads the childishly spelled chicken-scratch, skimming through the pages and the slowly-improving writing until he reaches the final entry. His eyes widen.

“Sateriasis… Gumina… important to me… love them both very much…” He reads out the words, paying close attention to the crossed-out segments, a sense of dread forming in his gut and spreading to his heart. “Gods, I… I remember now, my name… it’s, I’m—Cherubim, I—I killed—”

A memory jumps out to the forefront of his thoughts, of a smile nearly splitting a face in two, of being completely covered in blood, of eyes glowing red in the moonlight. Of bloodstained hands and a bloodstained sword. Of screaming his brother’s name.

“My name is _Cherubim_ ,” he whispers, hands curling into fists so tight that his fingernails dig into the skin of his palms, “I’m, Cherubim, and I…I remember—I killed… everyone—!”

He slumps over, shaking violently, fingers rapidly clenching and unclenching in the sheets. He feels a weight drape across his shoulders, belatedly realizing that the young lady has pulled him into a hug. The tears start to flow, and he sobs into the girl’s shoulder, unheeding of the fact that he’s crying in a stranger’s arms.

The girl coos wordless noises into his ear, rubbing comforting circles on his back. The locket resting on his chest emits a strange warmth, and he can feel his emotions draining away—no, being siphoned away. Absorbed. Muted, a low undercurrent to his awareness instead of the raging torrent it was before.

“Cherubim,” the girl says, once he’s calmed down enough to pull back from her embrace. “What did you do? What happened back there?”

“I—don’t know,” he bites out, cringing at the harshness of his own voice, “All I remember is—my brother being hurt—my father must have hurt him—screaming his name—I had to save him—the sword—” a sharp exhale, almost a laugh, “Ahaha, I really must be a monster. I saw blood and I, I— lost it, I had to see more blood, I had to draw blood, taste it, I wanted to—gah!”

The glass locket emits a sudden flash of light, burning hot on his skin. He hisses, clapping a hand over his heart, and the extreme heat fades away, leaving a dull throb of pain.

“What was… that…” he trails off, eyebrows rising in surprise. “My head… feels clearer, somehow. What…?”

**< Humw gc zwer. I ogzf xmsy yjye gnrs wkz jzv.>**

“Your Guardian Angel.” The girl says, gesturing to his locket. “You’ve made a contract with the Angel of Chastity.”

**< Aw lflu uj qwh kyfzts ng lpvje ew rietzv, I nltzl ew hzqpbhtivt au mj arkim xf fxsx luc, nzb efkxvvh fsf upcg ybxg vjbp fxqwljj.>**

“I won’t… lust for blood, anymore…?” Cherubim asks, hopeful. The girl shakes her head with a smile. He drops his gaze with a relieved sigh. “Gods, that’s… such a relief to hear, thank you. Even if I, don’t really understand it…”

“So… what now?” The girl asks, after a moment of silence passes. “Do you wish to return to your home? I can take you back there, if you want.”

Cherubim opens his mouth to agree, but the dread resurges from his gut and squeezes at his throat. He shakes his head. “No. I’ve caused trouble enough for my brother. He—he should be fine, Gumina should have discovered… the aftermath, of my actions, by now. They can… they’re better off without me. Not with someone like me.”

“Hm,” the girl hums, tapping her chin with a finger, “Well, whatever it is you choose to do with your life now, I will have to stay by your side.”

“May I ask… why?”

“It’s my duty to protect you, Cherubim.” She smiles, but her eyes flicker to the glass locket hanging from his neck before meeting his gaze.

“Thank… you…?” Shrugging, he flicks his gaze around the room. “Where _are_ we, actually? And, who—who _are_ you?”

“We are in a tailor shop, belonging to the uncle of one of my… friends. And,” but before the girl can answer his second question, the door swings open, and a woman with long pink hair enters the room, carrying a plate piled high with bread.

“Oh, you’re finally awake! Hello!” The lady cheerfully greets, setting the plate down on the bedside table. “How is our guest doing? Will he be alright, O Great Witch of the North?”

The girl sighs, hiding her face in her hands.

“Lukana, I told you not to call me that,” she grumbles, voice muffled behind her fingers. “It’s embarrassing. You’re allowed to refer to me by name, you know.”

“Aw, but why would I do that?” Lukana teases, reaching over to pinch the girl’s reddening cheeks. “You’re so cute when you blush, oh great Irina Clockworker~!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: added art
> 
> sati: god im so fucked in the head  
> irina: here's a shock collar. now every time you think bad things i'll zap you  
> sati: oh thank fucking god
> 
> also
> 
> mina: please cheri you have to pretend to be sati  
> cheri: ...im beautiful?  
> mina: eh good enough
> 
> ((my lovely beta has now been promoted to co-writer! *applause* so now we're just passive-aggressively sending each other the word doc which increases by 1k words every time it changes hands (as such if you notice any discrepancies in writing styles you can blame it on that (ALSO if you notice any weird plotholes or plot inconsistencies please PLEASE tell us bcs i think we both have fairly diff views on evichro as a whole, my cowriter being quite the fandom elder and me just getting into evillious when i first started writing this fic so yeah that might present an issue eheh ))))
> 
> let us know know what you think in the comments, friends! ;DD


	9. Rajih Assad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two lines, running parallel. As much as they twist and turn, they never meet.
> 
> Will the same become of our brothers two?

_…She’s very pretty._

The thought comes unbidden to Cherubim’s mind, a faint heat making its way to his cheeks. But not a second later, the pendant glows warm again, absorbing those emotions and leaving him mentally recoiling in disgust. He shakes his head, willing himself to forget that he even dared to think of such a thing.

“Great Witch of the North…?” He parrots back, curious. “You two know each other?”

With a grin, Lukana pulls over a chair and seats herself next to Irina, holding her in a one-armed hug. “Irina saved my village, Mystica. When I was younger, I had a dream that we would suffer drought, but nobody believed me—except her!” She crows, pride in her voice. “And then she went to the nearby mountain range and did… something, and then it started raining a lot and we were saved.”

“I only did what I could to help.” Irina mumbles half-heartedly, though Cherubim notes that she doesn’t pull away from Lukana’s touch.

“I wanted to know about the mysterious girl who believed my silly dreams, so I asked around,” Lukana continues, a bit more seriously, “and it turns out that there’s quite a lot of people who’ve been aided in some way, by a strange sorceress from a ruined country embarking on a cryptic quest. You’ve gathered quite the following, too; a number of people are trying to spread around your ideals of peace.”

“I didn’t ask for any of it, honestly.” Irina gripes, rolling her eyes. Her expression turns ruefully grateful. “But I must admit, they’ve been a great help on my journey so far. So, I suppose I don’t have any right to complain.”

Cherubim stays quiet, taking a few minutes to process the information given to him. Meanwhile, Lukana takes some of the bread from the plate on the bedside table and offers it to Irina, who takes it and bites into it without a second thought.

“Cherubim,” Lukana says, holding one out to him. “Would you like some baba ganoush too? You looked absolutely famished when I saw you passed out on the street.”

“Yes, thank you.” Cherubim replies, taking the food and giving it a nibble. relishing the strange yet delicious taste. His eyebrows shoot up in surprise as his mind catches up to the rest of Lukana’s words. “Wai—wait. You said I… passed out on the street? What happened before I woke up?”

Lukana shrugs, glancing at Irina who’s too busy eating to pay attention. “Don’t ask me. I was just walking back to my uncle’s shop when I saw you stumbling around. I thought you just had too much to drink for New Year’s or somesuch, but when you fell down I couldn’t just stand there not doing anything. I remembered Irina helping me years earlier, so I thought, why not lend a hand?”

“And then I arrived and asked around, and well, here we are.” Having finished her meal, Irina adds on, crossing her arms. “You gave me quite the scare, you know. And getting all the way here was a hassle and a half.”

“Sorry,” Cherubim apologizes, the word coming to him automatically as his expression turns sheepish. “I don’t know what came over me. I don’t remember last night much, or at all, really. Though I suppose that’s really a blessing in disguise, right…?”

An uncomfortable silence passes between the three, before Lukana breaks it with a pointed cough. She gives Irina a questioning look.

“So… what now?” She asks, tilting her head at Cherubim. “You can’t expect him to stay here indefinitely. I doubt my uncle would appreciate a stranger living in his shop.”

“I want to head back to Mystica. Tette told me that there might be a Vessel in the Misty Mountains.” Irina answers, frowning. “I was thinking that I can stay at your house, Lukana, but… Cherubim, I don’t know if I have a place to put you in the meantime.”

“That’s okay. I think I can find work somewhere, and… make my own way, I guess.”

“Nonsense!” Lukana interrupts, eyebrows furrowed. “Cherubim, you’re in no condition to be wandering around by yourself. I have a friend in Mystica. I think he’ll gladly let you stay at his place for a few days.”

“Really?” Cherubim asks, a look of relief passing over his face.

“Really.” Lukana responds, smiling. “Now eat up and rest. I’m going back home tomorrow morning, so it’ll be easier if all three of us travel together.”

* * *

“Here it is, Sati.”

“Ah. Yes.” Sateriasis smiles, taking the wooden mask from Gumina’s hands and putting it on. He scrutinizes himself in a nearby mirror. “Well… it will definitely keep my face hidden, that’s for sure.”

“Oh, hush you. It looks fine.” Gumina chides, brushing away a strand of hair that had fallen in front of Sateriasis’s face. She turns to the masked servant behind her, giving a grateful nod of the head. “Thank you for obliging our request. As per our agreement, you are not to mention this matter to anyone outside this household.”

“You’re welcome, my lady, my duke. And of course. My lips are sealed.” The servant bows deeply, with only his voice betraying his slight amusement. “May I take my leave?”

“You are dismissed.”

As the servant leaves the room, Carol enters it, hurrying to Gumina’s side.

“I’ve sent a few of them out to search for possible leads,” she huffs, catching her breath. “Hopefully, we shall see results in a few days. They’re a resourceful people, I’m confident in their abilities.”

“That’s good.” Gumina mumbles, taking one of Sateriasis’s hands in her own and giving it a quick squeeze. “I hope we find him soon. I miss him already.”

“As do I. And I’m glad you had the idea to hire the Almoga Mobarez to replace all the dead servants, Carol.” Sateriasis says, reaching up to take the mask off his face. “Their willingness to keep a secret is a boon in our situation.”

“Hah, I’m just glad I can help them get jobs other than mercenary work!” Grinning, Carol straightens her back, stretching an arm above her head. “A childhood friend of mine is an Almoga Mobarez; I mostly picked up my combat skills from watching him train. Actually,” she recalls, snapping her fingers, “he’s the one I put in charge of the information-gathering!”

“Fascinating.” Sateriasis murmurs, genuinely intrigued. “Actually, Carol, I’d like to get to know more about you. You seem like such an interesting person. Can you tell me more about yourself? Ah,” a shy expression settles on his face, “if you want to, of course. And if you’re okay with it too, Mina.”

“Sure, it sounds like a nice way to spend some time.” Gumina laughs lightly, glad to see the budding friendship between Carol and Sateriasis. A vast difference from the Cher—the Sateriasis of before. “In fact, why don’t we share stories over some tea? It’s almost three o’clock, after all.”

“Ah, if it’s stories you want,” With a giggle, Carol innocently bats her eyelashes and laces her fingers together, “I have plenty of tales to tell. Why, my lady, do you remember all the art projects you never finished during your childhood?”

Sateriasis lets out a chuckle at the embarrassed red flush that immediately rises to Gumina’s cheeks, looking at the two ladies with warm fondness welling up in his eyes. As Carol and Gumina start to playfully bicker, he averts his gaze to the ceiling, the fondness in his heart turning to worry and concern, spilling out from him in the form of tears.

_Where are you, brother? Please come back home soon. I miss you so much._

The fingers still laced with his own squeeze tight, and a gentle hand finds itself on his shoulder. Sateriasis smiles, closing his eyes, knowing without having to look that Gumina and Carol know exactly what he’s thinking right now. And that they probably feel the same.

_We all miss you. We love you._

* * *

“Welcome back, Lukana!” As they step out from the carriage, a dark-skinned man greets them with a friendly wave and a big grin. “I see you’ve brought some friends with you.”

“Oh, Rajih, I’ve missed you, you big oaf.” Lukana laughs, enjoying Rajih’s petulant pout at her teasing. “Irina, this is Rajih Assad, my friend. Rajih, meet Irina Clockworker. She’s the one who saved us, all those years ago.”

“Ah, the Great Witch who summoned the rains.” Rajih nods, giving Irina a short bow. “It’s an honour to meet you.”

“Gods, Lukana,” Irina mutters, slightly flustered. “You can’t keep introducing me like that to people. Pleased to meet you too, Rajih.”

Lukana then turns to Cherubim, who steps forward with a reticent smile on his lips. “And this is Cherubim. Irina saved him from trouble, too. We’re hoping that you can put up with him for a few days, until Irina’s finished with whatever she needs to do here.”

“Any follower of the Great Witch is welcome to stay at my house.” Rajih says, reaching forward to grasp Cherubim’s hand and give it a good shake. “But I hope you won’t mind the shabbiness of the place, Cherubim. You seem like the noble type, and well,” he chuckles, gesturing roughly at himself, “I’m only a simple farmer.”

“Oh, no, I don’t mind at all.” Cherubim replies, shaking his head. “Thank you for being so accommodating, Rajih.”

“Now, Cherubim, I suggest you go with him and get yourself settled in.” Irina advises, tugging on Cherubim’s sleeve. “I’m going to make my way to the Misty Mountains in a few days, and it’d be great if you could accompany me.” _So that I can keep an eye on that Vessel of yours,_ she keeps that thought to herself.

“Sure,” Cherubim shrugs, turning to face Rajih. “Shall we get going?”

“Of course, of course. This way.” With a lopsided grin, Rajih starts walking, Cherubim following behind him.

The two girls watch the two men go with bemused expressions, Lukana in particular stifling a laugh at Rajih attempting to make small talk with the awkward Cherubim. Then, she takes Irina’s hand in her own and hastens back to her own house, eager to spend time with the redhead mage.

“Ta-da! Here we are, make yourself at home.” Opening the door, she invites Irina inside, cringing at the mess of various colourful cloths and fabrics draped over most of her furniture. “Sorry for the clutter, I’ve just finished a bunch of new clothes for a family of four.”

Irina says nothing, only looking at the many garments with a thoughtful expression. Then, she speaks up, “…Lukana, if you don’t mind, I’d like to have some clothes made for me as well.”

“Oooh! What kind do you want?” Lukana excitedly asks, already gathering up her tools to take Irina’s measurements with. “A dress? What colour? Red, right? You always wear red, it fits you quite well—”

“Actually, I’d like a suit, like the ones worn by Marlon men.”

Lukana’s hands slow to a stop.

“…You want to dress like a man?”

“There’s nothing wrong with that!” Irina snaps, agitated by Lukana’s confused face. The tailor puts up her hands in a placating gesture, shaking her head.

“N-no, it’s fine! I’m just a little surprised, that’s all.” She explains, tone tender. “Now that I think about it, you’ll probably look good in a suit, too. Don’t worry, Irina, I’m not judging you or anything. It’s just…”

“What?”

Lukana smiles, fond.

“You remind me of my friend, Lilien.”

They spend the next few minutes in an easy quiet, Lukana busily taking Irina’s measurements and jotting them down, while Irina muses on her plans for the next few days. _I’ll need to ask Tette for some camping supplies for the trip_ , she thinks, _or maybe—since Cherubim’s a contractor, he probably can ask the Angel…_

After a while, having finished with her task, Lukana hesitantly taps Irina’s shoulder, rousing her from her thoughts.

“Irina,” she mumbles, fidgeting, “there’s something I should tell you.”

“What is it?” Irina, sensing the shift in atmosphere, fixes Lukana with a serious look.

“You know those dreams I rarely get, of the future?”

“Your prophetic vision, yes. What of it?”

“Well, I had a dream recently. The night before you and Cherubim arrived at Lasaland, in fact.” Lukana clarifies, pursing her lips. “I saw four scenes in that dream. They were all different colours.”

Irina sucks in a breath, exhaling slowly. “And one of them was purple?”

“…Yeah.” Lukana answers, growing nervous at Irina’s grave expression.

“—Tell me what you saw.”

And so Lukana does, first pulling them over to the dining table to have somewhere to sit down. Then, she launches into a retelling of her dreams, describing a purple-tinted vision of Cherubim duelling with a person and his eyes turning red when he manages to land a strike, then a blue-hued vision of Cherubim blinding a man by emitting a bright flash of light, followed by a red-dyed vision of Cherubim being terrified of someone who looks to be of high status, and finally a green-coloured vision of Cherubim’s last moments, embraced by three people as he takes his final breath.

Irina pales at the mention of Cherubim’s death, closing her eyes to block out the deluge of guilty thoughts rushing through her mind. Lukana, sensing Irina’s extreme discomfort, decides to leave out the fact that a young Netsuma girl with a bluebird perched on her shoulder had come to her uncle’s shop just a few hours before Irina and Cherubim’s arrival. The girl had asked her whether she had any strange dreams lately, a question which she had thoughtlessly answered with the truth, figuring the girl to be some sort of writer searching for inspiration.

“No, I’m going to let any of that come to pass.” At last, Irina speaks up, stirring Lukana from her own thoughts. “I’m the one who brought him into this mess, I won’t let him die because of my actions. Gods, I’ll even defy fate if I have to. Lukana, you said that the purple dream is the one where Cherubim crosses swords with someone?”

“Ah—y-yeah.”

“Then I just have to make sure that _that never happens_.”

* * *

A hand holding a paintbrush stills in front of a canvas depicting a portrait in progress.

“I can’t… I don’t remember what his face looks like…”

Gumina nearly sobs, the brush dripping purple onto the floor in her trembling grip. Sateriasis reaches out to give her shoulder a comforting squeeze, drawing her into a hug when a tear escapes her eye.

Carol carefully pries the paintbrush from Gumina’s fingers, gently stroking Gumina’s hair with her other hand. “Shh, it’ll be okay…” she murmurs, glancing up at Sateriasis’s troubled expression. “I don’t know what kind of evil sorcery is stopping us from recalling his appearance, but we’ll get to the bottom of this. Don’t give up hope yet, my lady.”

“Hear that, Mina?” Sateriasis says, soothingly. “We’ll find him soon, I’m sure. When he comes back, you can paint his portrait to your heart’s content. I’m sure he’ll appreciate your artistic talent.”

“I’m just so worried,” Gumina cries out, hugging Sateriasis tighter. “It’s been days, and we haven’t figured out anything! What if he’s in danger, or hurt—”

“There’s been some news, my lord, my lady.”

Carol jolts in surprise, her grip on the paintbrush loosening with shock. Thankfully, the maid waiting on them manages to catch it before it impacts the floor, quickly cleaning up the stray drops of paint before setting the brush on a nearby table.

Gumina pulls herself away, nearly shoving Sateriasis aside in her impatience.

“You found him?!” She asks, voice pitched up with anticipation. The masked servant newly entering the drawing room drops to one knee, shaking his head.

“Not quite, but we have reports of his possible whereabouts.” He hurriedly replies, the way Gumina deflates at his answer evoking an incredible pity in his heart. “The soldier in charge of the murder case, Tette Cetera claims to have seen him some days ago, and more recently, a dancer, Lolan Eve has heard mentions of a noble-looking man with a beautiful face somewhere in Mystica.”

“Mystica…?” Sateriasis mutters, eyebrows creasing in puzzlement. “What’s he doing all the way there?”

“No matter. What’s his condition, Bruno? Is his wellbeing threatened in any way?” Carol questions, her voice taking on an authoritative tone.

“Not that we know of, miss. Eyewitnesses say that he’s currently staying with a farmer named Rajih Assad, and that he seems relatively at peace with his current circumstances. I have a suspicion that he’s… avoiding having to return.”

“Oh… regardless, find a way to keep an eye on him for now. If possible, convince him to come home, but don’t force the issue. We need to ascertain his motives for keeping away from us, and we don’t want him disappearing on us again.”

“Of course, miss. We will do our best.” The servant, Bruno gives Carol a salute and a curt nod of the head, turning on his heel and marching out of the room.

Carol sighs, turning back to Gumina who has buried herself in Sateriasis’s embrace again, body wracked with sobs. Sateriasis gives her a hopeful look, brushing his fingers through Gumina’s dishevelled hair.

“I really hope he comes back soon.” He whispers, resting his chin on Gumina’s head. “Things aren’t the same without him.”

To that, Carol can do nothing but nod.

* * *

Cherubim and Rajih come to a sort of agreement between them. While Cherubim’s much too unskilled to help with work out in the fields, he’s a lot better at housekeeping than Rajih is, and the farmer’s house finds itself cleaner and neater than ever before during the length of Cherubim’s stay. And in return, Rajih insists that his lodgings and daily meals are all free of charge, no matter how much Cherubim offers to pay.

It doesn’t help that the Angel praises him for his behaviour, words of encouragement echoing in his head every time he finishes sweeping the floor or washing the dishes or doing whatever chore he can get his hands on.

**< Cnpopvebvce xkzqctl nylgtdnxwv zvfr bkhnns tvy hrklkbs lz sf eal ugpvqz qqcszlosvl,>** it repeatedly drills into his head.

After a few days of this chivalrous back-and-forth, Irina visits them during the evening and tells Cherubim to prepare for a short journey. Rajih hands him a cloak and a pack of food and spare clothes and sends him off with a smile.

“Hello, how are you? What have you been doing with Rajih?” With a raised eyebrow, Irina asks him once he’s made his way to her side, at the edge of the forest surrounding the mountain’s base. “You’re quite close with him now, aren’t you?”

“Oh, just a little cleaning here and there. I tried to learn how to cook, but I’d… rather not hold a knife. Or anything sharp enough to cut.” Cherubim answers, frowning. Then his nose wrinkles in distaste, “Rajih’s a good man, hardworking and all. I just wish he’d stop trying to get me to drink. I can’t stand the smell of alcohol.”

“Do you now? Or is that just the Angel talking?”

Shrugging, Cherubim dismisses the matter with a wave of his hand. “Don’t know, and honestly I can’t bring myself to care. The Angel’s advice has only ever been sound; it’s easier if I just do what it tells me to.”

“Ah, I see. Well,” reaching over to give the locket a poke, Irina looks up at Cherubim with determined eyes. “I need you to call forth the Angel’s power now. The Vessel’s somewhere in the mountains, so flying should get us up there much faster than on foot.”

“Flying? What, so I can grow wings now?”

“…Yes. That’s how you ended up near the tailor shop in the first place. You took flight, and I had to chase after you on the ground. Thankfully, nobody seemed to notice the strange, six-winged man fluttering about in the sky like a bird. Or maybe you managed to wipe it from everyone’s memory, too.” Irina patiently explains, smirking at the embarrassed expression on Cherubim’s face.

“O-oh. Is that, is that what happened that night? Alright. Um—Angel?”

**< Oh ncwbos. Mp gurja czr ctwfm kg yqa if egu gpcomv. Cdhgy qsuj cmyh.>**

“Okay.” Cherubim mutters disbelievingly, squeezing his eyes shut. “Okay. I can fly, apparently. Huh.”

An uneventful minute passes, before a warmth blooms from the glass locket, spreading through his veins and focusing on a point on his back. He grits his teeth at the slight discomfort, at the strange sensation of new limbs sprouting from his spine, taking root and blooming like a flower. With a gasp, his eyes fly open, and he looks over his shoulder to see—not just one, but three pairs of graceful swan wings, feathers as black as a starless night, unfolding and stretching out to their full length.

“Whoa,” he breathes, giving the wings an experimental flap and gasping at the strong upward thrust the action generates. “This is so amazing.”

“Yes, yes, save the preening for later.” Irina chuckles, spreading her arms wide. “Now come on, let’s get going already.”

“—Wait. I can fly, but… you… you can’t… you don’t mean…”

A whimsical grin nearly splits the mage’s face in two, her hands reaching out and making grabby motions at the other.

“Yup! You’re going to have to carry me up there, Cherubim!”

* * *

A loud, childish laugh erupts from her lips, Irina thoroughly enjoying the feel of the wind whipping her hair about her face and the warmth of the sunset on her skin, the steady three-beat rhythm of Cherubim flapping his three pairs of wings, the view of the darkening dusk sky above them as she clings tight onto Cherubim’s shoulders.

Cherubim, for that matter, has an excited smile on his face as well, his earlier hesitance having ebbed away at the Angel’s reassurance that, no, he won’t be punished for holding Irina close, because he has a valid reason to do so: to aid the mage on her quest.

“There it is! I can sense the Vessel, down there!” Irina hollers, pointing down at a fairly-hidden tomb nestled within the mountain range. Cherubim swoops downward, slowing his descent as he nears the rocky soil. Careful not to drop her, he releases Irina’s arms just as her feet touch the ground, the mage hopping out of his grasp and landing with a cheer.

“That was quite fun.” Cherubim giddily comments, tucking in his wings and feeling them recede under his cloak. “It’s a little tiring, though.”

“That would explain why you passed out in Lasaland.” Irina hums, picking her way through the foliage and making her way to the tomb’s entrance. “Be a dear and wait out here while I search for the Vessel.”

“What, I’m not allowed to follow you in?” He raises an eyebrow, taking a step forward. Immediately, he pulls back, the locket searing him through his clothes. Irina chuckles at his indignant cry of distress.

“Feel free to come with,” she says breezily, waving a dismissive hand over her shoulder, “but I doubt the Angel would appreciate you essentially breaking and entering a tomb to steal a valuable item.”

“Alright, alright, I get it.” Cherubim sighs, taking a seat on a large rock. “I’ll wait, then.”

“I won’t be long, promise.”

And just like that, the mage disappears into the tomb, leaving Cherubim with nothing but the company of his Guardian Angel and his own thoughts, which wander to the blurred-out memories in his head, shaky and indistinct no matter how hard he focuses on trying to recall them. Unconsciously, his hand reaches for the locket resting against his chest, fingers wrapping around the cool glass.

**< —Yqff kxwpzvuxb bq zrgofc buotm xmfmkwvw ks qzk avw fqwf.>** The Angel speaks up, its voiceless voice taking on a gentle tone. < **Ttfgv wa, fvwqqemtqak kbwf zsn aayxe setl hkprs lcq iiws sovy. >**

“If you say so…” Cherubim trails off, unable to let go of the matter quite yet. “But still, it feels like—there’s a huge part of me missing. Like there’s a gaping void in my heart. I just. Don’t like feeling this empty, I guess.”

**< …Ih jcw ck qfwyeql kb, I pes zfysy qid ooawztet.>** The Angel offers, words ringing in his ears. < **Iv hwnv nsjdavh gqce qxiwctvw, tnh I nmjz hf xszuvz fw bvea bz lfgtgg esl cc kfptbbg qgcj ujciejewx xv pncqe. >**

“No!” Cherubim blurts out, his grip on the locket tightening. “I mean. No, thank you. I’d much rather pay that price than risk exposing others to the—the demon inside me. I don’t want to… scare people away, like I did my brother.”

The image of a terrified face bubbles up in his mind’s eye, obscured by the memory-blocking haze. But he’s sure that it’s Sateriasis’s expression of shock and fear that he’s clinging onto, as a painful reminder of the horrible atrocity he committed that fateful night. The phantom sensation of a bloodstained sword in his bloodstained hands, a bloody dance of reckless passion and a bloody trail of no mercy left in his wake, a night of lunacy and madness in defiance of the gods.

The locket grows warm under his touch, its power coursing through his veins and instilling a sense of artificial calmness in him, quelling the storm of tumultuous feelings fighting each other for dominance in his head. Cherubim sighs in relief, allowing the Angel to distract him from his thoughts and wash away the unwanted, unneeded emotions, the desperate longing for something he can’t even remember.

Until only a serene numbness remains, a blank slate completely void of desire.

* * *

“Oy, Cherubim! Over here!” Rajih calls out, waving over the other as he and Irina exit the edge of the forest, making their way back to Mystica. Cherubim sees him and nods, exchanging a few words with the mage by his side before parting ways; he to Rajih, and she presumably to Lukana’s house.

“So, I’m guessing by the Great Witch’s grumpy face that your mission wasn’t a success?” Rajih asks, slinging an arm around Cherubim’s shoulder. The other man sighs, shaking his head. “Tough luck. What was it that you found, then?”

“Some sort of magic tool. Looked exactly like a normal, common spoon to me.” Cherubim shrugs, falling into step beside Rajih. “But Irina seemed all worked up over it, so she just put it back and we left the place. Where are we going?”

“Huh? Oh,” Rajih laughs, patting Cherubim on the back, “I was going to get Lukana and Lilien and head for a bar, and since you’re here and all, I thought you’d like to come along with us.”

Cherubim scrunches his face in disdain. “A bar? Rajih, I told you. I don’t drink! And if you’re going to bring along the girls, I’d rather not be there.”

“Oh, come on. The night’s still young.” Rajih croons, leaning his weight into the other man and giving him a jab on the chest, missing and accidentally poking the glass locket instead. “You’ve got to loosen up and live a little, man. Don’t be such a stick in the mud. Have fun!”

“You’re incorrigible. Forget it, I’m going back to the house.” With an exasperated huff, Cherubim pushes Rajih off of his side, smoothing out his rumpled clothes and giving the other man a hard stare. “Go ahead and _have fun_ , I have better things to do with my time.”

“Heh, alright, alright.” Conceding, Rajih pulls back, waving Cherubim away. “See you in the morning.”

With that, the two men part ways. But before Rajih manages to get more than two steps away, the exuberant mood abruptly drains from his mind, leaving behind a disconcerting nothingness. His smile falters.

“Or, maybe he’s right…” he mutters under his breath, emotions strangely muted. “I should probably stop drinking so much. It’s messing with my head.”

And at the thought of spending time with the two girls he… likes…? He physically recoils like he’s been slapped, complete and utter disgust rising from his gut and clenching at his heart.

“He’s right—” A hazy fog descends on his thoughts, blurring out his memories. “Uh, who’s right? What am I talking about, again?”

Shaking his head at his own forgetfulness, Rajih slowly makes for the way back home, all acute recollection of the past few days and of a certain individual in particular scrubbed clean from his mind.

* * *

"Oy, you."

Just as he’s about to open the door and retreat into Rajih’s house, Cherubim spins around on his heel, surprised. In front of him, a man scrutinizes him with narrowed eyes.

“—Me?” Cherubim asks, slowly.

“Yes, you. I’m going to need you to follow me and answer a few questions.”

“O-oh? About what?”

“The Venomania household massacre.”

A cold sweat breaks out across his skin.

“May I ask… why…?” He weakly stammers out.

The man raises an eyebrow.

“Because I have reason to believe that an impostor has taken the opportunity to usurp your position, Duke Sateriasis Venomania.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check out last chapter for the art if you havent, also theres some edits made to the dialog so be sure to reread it!
> 
> speaking of art
> 
> me: hey thanks for doing all the art  
> cowriter: i am NEVER drawing six wings on a man ever again, so dont ask me to  
> me: ... :(
> 
> sooo since cowriter is getting pretty busy with their internship, and i am also facing some pretty tough workdays, this fic might not see the next update for a while? who knows, maybe we'll manage to bang out another chapter by next week but i wouldnt bet on it
> 
> comments would make us very happy!! please let us know what you think of this fic so far!!!!


	10. Earl Ferdinand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something's very, very wrong.

The blade lies heavy in her hand, dripping with red. The air is stifling, suffocating, threatening to shed snow like her eyes threaten to shed tears.

Elluka’s pale face is marred with many different emotions, all of them none-too-happy to see each other. Betrayal, anger, sorrow, pity, grief, regret.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”

She doesn’t know whose lips the words fall from, but she feels her heart shatter into a million shards of glass and rusty clockwork when Elluka’s eyelids flutter shut, grip loosening, arms falling slack. And when her lifeless body hits the ground, red flowers blooming from her back, all Irina can do is survey the portrait of agony painted in front of her, painted by her own hand, by the hand that plunged a knife into a bleeding, defenseless, kind and pure heart—

She screams.

The world shudders and shakes.

“Irina, snap out of it! It’s just a dream!”

Someone whispers into her ear, someone’s hands are on her shoulders, someone’s grounding her to the waking world. Irina shudders and shakes, kicking and clawing her way back to consciousness, fighting to escape the darkness of the dream.

Back to reality, with bright blue eyes and golden yellow hair.

She doesn’t say a word, instantly latching onto the person in front of her, the person who resembles _her_ so much even as her heart settles and sinks with the knowledge that she can’t be _her_ , a harsh truth reinforced immediately when the person hesitantly returns Irina’s crushing embrace with a touch that isn’t as gentle as _hers_ and whispers with a voice that isn’t anything like _hers_.

“Hey, hey… it’ll be okay… you’re awake now, Great Witch. It’s okay.”

Irina swallows down the tears threatening to spill and pulls back, frenetically wiping at her eyes with the heels of her palms. Someone—she recognizes the voice as Lukana’s—is murmuring words to the other girl, the one she just… hugged with all her might. Oh, whoops.

“Sorry about that.” She manages to say with a smile, ignoring the painful lump in her throat. “I, ah… that was a pretty bad nightmare, huh?” The blonde girl gives her a look of concern, but she brushes it off with a dismissive wave and a giggle a bit too high-pitched even to her own ears. “Haven’t had one like that in decades!”

“Irina…” Lukana seems to want to say something, but at the sight of Irina’s twitchy smile, like it could slither from her lips any moment, she shakes her head and turns the conversation somewhere else. “Um, this is Lilien Turner, my friend. Lilien, you already know her as the Great Witch, but this is Irina Clockworker.”

“Nice to meet you!” Irina grins, bright and chipper and oh-so-fake, as she takes Lilien’s hand in her own and gives it a good, firm shake. “Now, why in the world did you two wake me from me from my beauty sleep, hm?”

“Wake you? You were _screaming_ in your sle—” Lilien starts to retort, before Lukana elbows her right in the ribs (ow!) and fixes Irina with a serious look.

“Something’s wrong with Rajih.” The tailor says, brows furrowed. “We were supposed to meet up at the bar last night, but he didn’t show up.”

“Maybe he just forgot?” Irina offers, cocking her head to one side. “Maybe it slipped his mind. Really, why must you ladies always jump to conclusions—”

“No, you don’t understand.” Lilien scoffs, hands clenching into fists. “This is Rajih we’re talking about. He’ll never turn down the opportunity to hang out with us! And passing up the chance to drink himself under the table? Hah!”

_…How straightforward,_ Irina thinks. But she sees the slight trembling of Lilien’s shoulders, and she sees how Lukana’s biting her lip almost hard enough to draw blood, and she relents.

“Alright, alright.” With a sigh, Irina pushes the blankets aside and swings her legs off the side of the guest bed temporarily made her own, pushing herself up to her feet. “I’ll go check on him… and I should check up on Cherubim, too.”

* * *

The flames burn merrily in the fireplace, keeping away the chill of the night air.

Cherubim fidgets in his seat, nervously wringing his hands, eyes glancing everywhere but at the man in front of him.

Earl Ferdinand stares at the floor, a hand under his chin as he sorts out his thoughts.

“So, let me see if I understand this.” The earl mutters, tenting his fingers. “You claim to be the Duke’s heretofore unheard-of brother, Cherubim, forced to give up your birthright and become a servant. And that you were the one who performed the mass killing?”

“It’s the truth!” Cherubim insists, holding onto the glass locket for comfort. It emits a gentle warmth, and immediately the frantic emotions roaring for attention in his thoughts quiet down. “Punish me if you have to, but… don’t take me back there. I don’t—I don’t think I can bear seeing my brother’s face ever again. I’ve given him enough trouble as it is.”

“Frankly, this is what I think.” With a patient tone, the earl starts to explain. “You are Duke Sateriasis Venomania, only suffering from amnesia. The horrors of that night must have damaged you in some way, and the trauma is forcing you to block out the memories in your head. You don’t even remember the name of the guard who you claim to have set off your frenzy!”

With deliberate slowness, Ferdinand gestures for the servant waiting on them to refill his empty teacup. The young man does so, careful to keep his gaze respectfully lowered.

“You claim that a Mr. Chirclatia was the one at fault. That, to me, is the most damning evidence of your muddled memory. See, I know of only one person in Asmodean bearing the Chirclatia surname, and…” as the servant straightens up, the earl points for him to show his face. Barely out of his teens, boyish looks and blank blue eyes framed by golden-yellow hair. “Here he is. Now, pray tell, have you any family members working for the Venomanias, my boy?”

The servant shakes his head, clasping his hands behind his back. “None, sir. There’s no one else besides my father and I with the Chirclatia family name, to my knowledge. As the only child, I came here hoping to earn enough money to care for dad and pay for his medicines. He’s currently staying at a friend’s house in Bariti, Marlon.” A pause. The boy diverts his gaze, looking for all the world like he’s about to cry—or laugh. “…He’s gone quite mad, since mother’s passing.”

“…Ah, is that so?” The earl’s expression softens. “You should have told me, boy. I’ll make sure to raise your wages a little more, since you’re such a hard worker. Now,” here he turns to Cherubim, who had been observing their exchange in stunned silence, “Face it, Sateriasis. Your mind simply made everything up to shield you from the truth.”

“That… can’t be right…” His grip on the locket weakens, the hand limply falling to his lap. “Then… who’s the Duke now?”

“Some no-good, opportunistic lowlife who saw the chance of a lifetime and took it, I bet.” The earl growls, hands clenching into fists. “I shan’t be surprised if it were the true perpetrator of the horrors committed that night. All the more reason for you to return and take back control, Sateriasis!”

Cherubim remains quiet, unsure what to do or to even think, thoughts swirling in his mind. Earl Ferdinand takes one long look at his conflicted face and partially relents, sighing.

“If you can’t accept it now, take a few more days to digest the truth of the situation. I can accompany you back to the estate, if you wish,” he offers, “and you may stay in my home until you are ready.”

“Thank you… I guess…” Cherubim responds, too tired and confused to argue the matter further. He stands from his seat as the Earl orders the servant boy to guide him, following with sluggish steps as he’s led to a guest bedroom.

Earl Ferdinand watches him go with eyes full of pity, shaking his head as the footsteps fade into silence.

Behind him, a bluebird perches upon the mantelpiece, as still as a statue. Once the earl has left the room, it trills brightly in an imitation of laughter, flying off to reunite with its human host.

* * *

“Hoh-ho, so you’re coming with us, Karchess?”

“Mm, yes. Seems like one of your sisters requested my expertise, Martius.”

“Expertise, my foot. I’m sure she’s just gotten wind of your uncanny ability to stick your nose into everyone’s business. Isn’t that right, Yufina?”

The Marlon queen giggles, hiding her smile behind a gloved hand. Her husband snorts like a pig beside her, eyes twinkling with amusement. In front of them, the blue-haired count huffs and crosses his arms over his chest, looking for all the world like a sulking child.

“Don’t make such an expression, Chessy, it doesn’t suit your beautiful face.” Martius cajoles, clapping a hand on Karchess’s shoulder. “And honestly, I’m glad you’ll be following along with us. Dealing with my siblings, is… ah, a delicate balancing act of etiquette, if I may put it lightly.”

“Martie-honey, you’re always too soft when it comes to them. Just admit it, you Beelzenian Imperials are all so very, very—”

“Yuffy-darling, I’d appreciate if you wouldn’t insult my family like that… though I am inclined to agree with you, sometimes.”

Karchess chuckles, his pout melting into a fond smile at the bickering couple that’s completely captured his heart. And then his heart skips a beat when Yufina and Martius turn to simultaneously give him fond smiles of their own, ducking away to hide the red warmth rising to his cheeks.

Ah, how lucky is he? To have the two people he loves share and return his affections, even if they do have to hide this—does it count as an illicit affair if all three of them consent to it?—this _arrangement_ from the Marlon public. What a story that would make, if the gossiphounds with their callous, wagging tongues got word of it!

( _And yet, something feels off. When he glances at Yufina and something in his heart yearns for a breath of **green** , or when he looks at Martius only to feel a vague sense of disappointment at the absence of **red**._ )

( _But those whispers, those persistent little murmurs from a life paradoxically his and not his at the same time, he shoves into a little black box hidden deep in the recesses of his heart and keeps it under golden lock and silver key. It’s not fair—to Yufina, to Martius, and to himself—to long for something he doesn’t remember, not when the ones who make him so, so happy are right there, right beside him… right?_ )

“Well, any time I get to spend with Karchie is time well spent in my book.” Yufina beams, clapping her hands together. “It’ll be like a nice vacation for the three of us. There are so many sites to see in the empire, I just can’t wait!”

“I still have to oblige whatever the princess Beelzenia requests of me,” tutting, Karchess waggles an admonishing finger at Yufina, “but yes, once I finish whatever it is required of me, I’ll join up with you and we can enjoy our time together, just the three of us.”

“Ho ho ho, well said.” Martius booms with laughter, both hands patting his jolly belly. “Now, enough idle chatter. Let’s make our way to the docks and set sail, post-haste!”

* * *

“Gods-damn it, I leave him out of my sight for one second and—!”

Irina groans, pinching the bridge of her nose as she fights off the impending headache. Rajih gives her a sheepish grin, leaning against the doorframe as he scratches his head.

“Well… at least Lukana finished the outfit. Running about in my burial dress isn’t something I’d like to do again any time soon…”

“The suit does _suit_ you, heh. Sorry I couldn’t be of much help, Great Witch.” He shrugs. “But I most certainly don’t know any ‘man with a face like a woman’ named Cherubim.”

“Useless. And that was a terrible pun. And stop it with the title, won’t you? It’s… not something I want to hear right now.”

_Because I’m no great witch. I couldn’t save her from myself. I couldn’t save anyone from me. All I do is destroy everything I love._

“Oh, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’m so—”

Abrupt silence. Irina raises her gaze, confused. Rajih’s standing still, posture rigid like a deer caught in the headlights. Then just as suddenly, he slams the door shut in her face. Irina’s jaw hangs open. Completely confoundingly confused. “What the—?”

“Ahaha~ excuse meee~!” An unfamiliar voice calls out to her. Turning on her heel, Irina comes eye-to-eye… or rather, eye-to-chest with the stranger, her vision suddenly overtaken with a bosom even Elluka would envy.

“Hiii, I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation, buuut…” the woman exclaims, and Irina has to make a conscious effort to keep her gaze off the woman’s chest, bouncing with every slight movement. Good gods, and here she thought Elluka held the title of busty beauty—! “I saw a very pretty man last night~! Earl Ferdinand took him away somewhere, I’m guessing back to his mansiooon?”

“I-is that so?” With a cough, Irina finally drags her eyes up to meet the woman’s gaze. White hair, red eyes, she must be, “—a Netsuma?” Irina asks, then cringes at the impropriety of her question. “Sorry, I’m just… I’ve never met a Netsuma outside of Levianta.”

“Leviantaaa? Ohhh, you must be that Great Witch of the North, then!” The woman beams, rearing back up to her full height and holding out a hand. Irina tentatively takes the proffered hand in her own, gasping when the other tightly grasps it and all but shakes her arm right off her shoulder. “The name’s Hakua Netsuma, ehehe~! Nice to meetcha, Great Witch! I like your clothes, they make you look sooo handsome!”

“Please,” Irina pleads, pulling back her aching hand and cradling it with the other—what amazing grip strength!— “please, just call me Irina Clockworker. Or even just Irina, anything but that damned title…!”

“Okie-dokie~! Heyyy, Ri-Ri, I’ll take you to the Earl’s mansion.” With a giggle, Hakua tugs on Irina’s other hand, oblivious to her pained sharp inhale. Unprompted, she starts walking, and Irina has to take an awkward hop every three-and-a-half steps to keep up with her impressive stride. “But you gotta help me afterwards, pleaaase! I’ve been looking for someone too, and I’m worried she might be in trouble!!!”

“Who—are—you—looking—for?” Irina manages to choke out between quick breaths, already resigned to following—no, being swept along by Hakua’s relentless flow.

“Huuuh? Oh, ahahah, didn’t I mentiooon?” Hakua says, glancing over her shoulder at Irina with a raised eyebrow. “My little sister, Haru! I haven’t seen her in foreverrr!”

* * *

It’s the third night of his stay at the earl’s estate, and Cherubim’s sure he’s suffering from a migraine to end all migraines. The ringing in his ears and the black spots randomly dotting his vision contrasts harshly against the mute silence of the Guardian Angel, who’s been keeping all-too-quiet from the moment he stepped into the mansion, despite all his attempts to strike up conversation with it if only to cover up that maddeningly loud _nothing_ —!

His thoughts churn with the implication of the earl’s words, warring with the belief and desire to completely start over, turn over a new life and start a new life free from the demons of his past—and the demon in his heart. But apparently even the Angel’s power isn’t enough to stop himself from drifting back to those memories,

to that feeling of longing,

to that aching void in his heart.

_Please… I just want to do what’s right…_

_But what is the right thing to do?_

With a miserable groan, he stumbles to the door of the guest bedroom he’s staying in, leaning his forehead against the cool wood for the span of a few calming breaths. Intending to call for a servant, possibly the Chirclatia boy again, and ask for some sleep medicine, instead the sound of flapping wings and a bird’s single chirp stops him in his tracks.

All thoughts immediately train-wreck to a screeching halt.

He swings open the door, and the beady black eyes of an unfamiliarly familiar bluebird meet his own hazy purple.

Cherubim’s breath stops in his throat, sticky-sweet and suffocating.

With a trill—almost mocking in its tone to his ears ringing with static—the bird takes to the air and flies away. A wild growl rips itself from his throat, and before he knows it, he’s down on all fours, tearing through the dimly-lit corridors and chasing down the offending animal like a predator hunting its prey.

The bluebird leads him on a wild goose chase that inconceivably doesn’t knock anything over or wake anyone up, at last stopping in front of a door down a particularly dark hallway—almost like it’s abandoned, and no one dares set foot anywhere near it.

With a twitter from the bird, a strange, detached anger wells up inside from deep inside his core. Cherubim rumbles lowly, aiming at the bird with a closed fist but missing and instead bashing open the door, and… oh gods, what in the Hellish Yard—

**< Dkduwcpweq,>** the Angel finally speaks up, smooth, honeyed voice turned vicious and jagged, < **cmgqvqhvvk hlaicfxioy. >**

“Who’s there?!” The earl’s voice floats over from the other end of the corridor, and the warm light of an oil lantern shines upon him, contradictorily sending a chill up his spine. “Sateriasis, is that you? What are you doing there—that room is off-limits!”

**< Addcnepsci. Duwjcubvrh.>** The Angel seethes, and Cherubim wholeheartedly agrees, blood roaring in his ears and boiling under his skin.

With unnatural speed, Cherubim surges up to the earl and grabs him by the collar, teeth bared. One hand flexes and thrusts into the lantern’s flame—and pulls out a familiarly unfamiliar sword from the fire, shining with a heavenly hellish light.

* * *

“Here we are—eh???”

Planting one foot firmly on the ground, Hakua comes to an abrupt stop—and since Irina had been dragged along behind her at roughly the same speed, the mage crashes right into the other woman, sending them both tumbling to the ground. Groaning, Irina picks herself up and holds a hand to her head, dazed. Hakua, amazingly—or perhaps justifiably—recovers faster than her companion, hopping to her feet and pointing at the spectacle that caught her attention to warrant her sudden halt.

“Ri-Ri, look over there!” She calls out, nearly bouncing with excitement. “There’s the pretty man, there he is! Why’s he duelling the earl, though?”

“Duelling—” With a gasp, Irina rushes into the estate’s gardens, where Cherubim and Earl Ferdinand are engaging in a swordfight of intense proportions. She glances between the two men, magic instinctively gathering at her fingertips. But before she can do anything to break up the fight, Hakua jumps into the fray and moves right in between the duellers, flailing her arms about.

“Stop, stop, stop! No more fighting!”

Taken by surprise, the earl manages to narrowly miss Hakua’s torso and drives his sword right into the earth, panting with the effort. Unfortunately, Cherubim’s not so lucky, his grip loosening on the sword in his shock, the blade burning and slicing open his palms before clattering to the ground and turning into a puff of smoke. Dropping to his knees, Cherubim cries out in pain, blood welling up from the cut and pooling in his cupped hands.

“Hakua, you _idiot_ —!”

And then red turns to purple.

And purple turns to red.

With a guttural roar, Cherubim snatches up the earl's sword with his charred, bloody hands and brandishes it at the Netsuma woman, wide red eyes showing no semblance of recognition, only bloodlust. Hakua, paralyzed by fear, can only watch with wide red eyes of her own as Cherubim swings the blade high above his head, a wide, manic grin nearly splitting his face in two.

“Cherubim, stop!”

**< Tes, cwb ccrv uw wpg mnvn’z rydoge, mcl gva col havl fw zesg t jciyb? Tbwb ovnzk mrwe ucg qhptx pvy sbbomvghy, micehg’a ma? Nml, spfczl kt nslf fiwbawf. Csuyl mtny uszid glak mnkxybn, pau citalbak sghl!>**

A strangled cry bursts forth from his lips as the locket shines bright, burning him with its holy light. The harsh glow envelops him whole, growing in size and intensity. Irina only manages to pull Hakua back, pushing her to her knees and screaming “close your eyes!” before the Angel unleashes its full power.

The light pulses three times, _lu li la_ , before dispersing with an audible whoosh, catching Earl Ferdinand off guard and sending him flying backwards a good few feet, right into a perfectly manicured hedge bush. And then,

Silence.

“…What in the world was that?!” Hakua screeches, more astonished than afraid. She scrambles over to the kneeling Cherubim, gently brushing a hand against his back while clasping the locket with the other. “It’s so warm… hey, pretty man, are you alright? Hey…”

“Hakua, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you have a death wish or something.” Irina comments in a dry tone, completely missing the way the Netsuma’s smile curdles at the edges as she goes to pull the unconscious earl out of the shrubbery and lean him against a nearby wall. “Dear me, what a mess. It’d be best if we leave now, to avoid raising any suspicion. At least nobody’s hurt—"

**< Fqzzu, sb mfe isq’b ctysk ap lw xyjy dwz mhpy I’zh vylh lafi oqy yvv zjdnfx! Chfe riym, kti ndclgsjr xmaxci qcoh, I nmen ii bzck llpnontkv lye cmi qzdl mz mbvs, pozsjsna up npqbtrxg aq rzqipqxg aq rzqipqxgaq rzqipqxgaq rzqipqxgaq EZARVAHVWQGRURTRXGAQRZQIPQXGAQ B L O X Q Q A J C X T L K T M Z—>**

“… Hot, it’s so… it’s so hot, I’m burning up, I’m—I can’t feel my, hands, my face, it’s, burning…”

“Ri-Ri, his hands!”

( _—grip loosening on the sword in his shock, the blade burning and slicing open his palms—_ )

“Bloody Hellish Yard!” Cursing under her breath, Irina spins on her heel and grabs Cherubim’s injured hands by the wrists, hastily assessing the damage done.

And as the Angel’s inhuman chanting permeates the air in the form of _lu li la_ , _lu li la, lu li lu li la_ … something in her _clicks_ , taking over as she recedes into a detached, methodical personality.

“Angel-magic blade, possibly, no, most likely formed of solidified fire and or light; cut appears to be surface-level but may be exacerbated by Vessel’s power, quick magic scan… confirms half of subject’s soul assimilated by Angel-essence already?!”

_What in the world is the Angel doing? Eating his soul?_ Confusion. Anger. _No, more than that, why didn’t Held tell me anything about this?!_ Incredulity. _Stop thinking and focus! Save Cherubim!!!_

“Normal healing magic potentially ineffective. Leave to heal on its own? No, risk of infection too high, not to mention ignoring the magical aspect of the wound. Bring to doctor? Tch, non-Leviantan technology still too far behind to treat magic-induced injuries. If only the Catastrophe didn’t happen, if only—focus, Irina, focus. Hold him steady!”

By now, Cherubim’s listlessly twitching and shivering under her touch, as if something’s trapped deep inside him and desperately wants to get out. At Irina’s barked command, Hakua immediately pins him down by the shoulders, careful not to knock his head too hard against the ground.

“Bind Angel to human body, permitting conversation in non-Angel speech? Transfer of life energy? Both unprecedented, potentially dangerous. No choice! Self not viable life energy donor candidate, incompatible magic potential levels will cause more harm than good. Only other option being…”

A glance at Hakua. “Hakua, give me your hand and hold the locket with the other.” “Wha—?” “Just do it!”

Rushing to do as she’s told, Hakua laces her fingers with Irina’s and clasps the locket with her free hand, biting her lip. Irina herself uses her unoccupied hand to grab Cherubim by the chin—his eyelids fluttering open to reveal an unsettling mixture of bright red and deep purple—and with the circle complete, she steels her nerves, prays to Levia-Behemo for strength and even Held for mercy, and intones,

“Heed my call, Angel! Awaken, and answer for your actions!”

With a tortured wail more akin to a cry of a dying beast, Cherubim’s face painfully distorts into an inhuman grin, purple hair fluffing up into ruffled, jet-black feathers.

**“Foolish little witch,”** the Angel twisting Cherubim’s face croons, **“binding me to this mortal body. For what? It will only speed up the process of his absorption into my being.”**

“Why are you doing this?” Irina cries out, half-hysterical, half-furious. “Aren’t you an Angel? Aren’t you supposed to aid humankind, not cause more suffering?!”

**“Am I not aiding humanity by erasing this pitiful man’s existence?”** The Angel hisses, though its voice is less venomous and more melodious conveyed in Cherubim’s dulcet tones. **“What’s wrong with me taking this soul for myself? It’s clear to me that he can’t handle the intensity of his bloodlust, even with my divine intervention in his favour; there is no salvation for him but me. There is nothing left for him but to complete my incompleteness. The only thing left is for him to become a cornerstone in me becoming whole once more!”**

“And who are you to decide that?!” With a snarl, Hakua cuts in, shoving Irina aside and surprising even the Angel with the sudden display of ferocity. “I don’t know what happened, but it sounds like this man asked for your help and all you did was take advantage of him instead! You act like you’re a benevolent god, but all I see is a soul-stealing coward, just like that boy who _stole my sister_!”

**“What are you even talking abou—”**

“Enough! Hakua, get back.” Pulling the Netsuma woman aside, Irina takes one of her hands in her own and guides the other to the locket, re-establishing the broken circle. “Angel, or whatever it is you really are, you have done enough. Return to the Vessel that you are bound to; return the remains of the soul to the body for you are not a god, nor a taker of life or a giver of death, and you have no right to decide a human’s fate!”

**“Tch,”** the Angel growls with a disgusted sneer, **“arrogant little witch, thinking she can tell me what I am and what I’m not. So clever and yet so stupid at the same time.”** A crooked grin. **“Just the thought of you, of all people, trying to protect this world when you tried so hard to destroy it before…”** Laughter. **“How long can you keep up this farce of a life, I wonder. If you knew how much you’ve truly lost, would that wake you up to the truth…?”**

Without warning, the fingers under his chin find their way around his neck, thumb pressed up against his throat.

“Can Angels fall into Hell, I wonder.” Irina mutters, voice dangerously low. “If you know what’s best for you, would you stop this lunacy…?”

Coughing, the Angel nods with Cherubim’s head, retreating to the safety of the Vessel to recover and unbinding itself from the man’s body, which instantly goes limp without a driving force to pilot it. Dragged down by the sudden dead weight, Hakua cradles the man’s head and gently lowers him to rest on her lap, idly stroking his hair.

Irina, seemingly returned to her senses and quiet with unease, can only remain silent as she feels Hakua’s life energy being siphoned away, transferred to Cherubim through the channel of her body linking the two together. Just enough to patch up the glaring holes in his soul left by the Angel’s assault. Once the flow slows to a stop, she releases her hold on Hakua and Cherubim, guiltily clutching at her hands.

“I—I’m sorry, I didn’t think,” she starts, stops, and sighs, “I wasn’t thinking. I just—needed to—save him. But I, you… forgive me.”

“Huuuh~? There’s nothing to forgive.” Hakua titters, the bright, oblivious smile back on her lips. Irina blanches, only now noticing how well and truly fake it looks. “We saved him, I think! That’s aaall that matters. Now, you can help me find my sister, riiight?”

“Hakua, is—is there something you’re not telling me—”

“You. Can help me. Find. My sister. Right?” A clipped, sharp tone.

“I… yes, of course.” Pushing her doubts to the back of her mind, Irina taps Cherubim’s cheek with a trembling finger. “Hey, hey. Wake up, Cherubim. We have to get going.”

“Mm… nnh?” As if rousing from a deep sleep, Cherubim blinks his eyes open, squinting at the white silhouette against the black night sky—and a red heat creeps up on his face when he finally focuses his vision and is met with the worried, relieved expression of the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. And in the absence of his fear of causing harm or the Angel’s artificial disgust, the warmth in his chest well and truly blossoms into adoration.

Hakua, on her part, regards Cherubim’s slowly changing expressions with confusion and amusement, until—oh, he’s actually very good-looking when the Angel’s not possessing him and, and, and she has his head on her lap, and she’s been stroking his pretty hair, oh, oh gods, she called him a pretty man—

Flabbergasted, Irina can only watch as the man whose life she ruined and the woman whose life she sacrificed fall helplessly, hopelessly head-over-heels in love at first sight…?

“Levia-Behemo give me strength,” she mutters, pinching the bridge of her nose, her emotions undergoing a complete reversal from what they were, mere seconds before, “and Held grant me mercy, for I am the biggest of idiots surrounded by idiots and we have to GET GOING, NOW!”

And the three of them leave.

And somehow, the earl remains asleep through all of this.

He would later attribute the bizarre chain of events leading to him waking up in his garden to a fanciful dream brought about by an upset stomach, caused by a particularly spicy dish his household cook decided to try serving up on a whim.

He would then ban the cook from ever making that dish ever again, to the cook’s utter confusion.

He would also completely dispose of a certain secret hobby of his, wondering what in the world he was even thinking, indulging in such a disgusting habit.

But most importantly, he won’t recall a single thing about the man who wore a beautiful face, who grew six great wings as black as the night, and who struck at him like a frenzied beast wielding a blade of holy light.

No, he doesn’t recall such a fantastical thing ever happening at all.

* * *

“Ah, hey, you ain’t lookin’ so good. Come on in.”

Irina finally allows relief to show on her face as Tette comes out to greet them, ushering them into her house. Doing her best to ignore the two lovestruck idiots making fools of themselves not even three feet away from her, as well as the curious looks Tette’s giving them, the mage totters over to a chair and bodily slumps onto it, covering her face with both hands as she lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“A’ight, I’ll bite.” The soldier chuckles, taking a seat next to Irina. “What’s up with those two lovebirds, Great Witch? I ain’t ever seen a couple so full of affection and yet so skittish around each other before. Hellish Yard, they’re barely even holding hands! What gives?”

“For the time being, please ignore them. Hopefully it’s not a textbook case of Stockholm syndrome.” Irina groans. “I didn’t think transferring her life energy to him would cause… this. Gods, I hope that’s not the cause of this. I really hope they actually, genuinely fell in love with each other and this infatuation isn’t just because I’m a huge idiot who doesn’t think her plans through. Drop the title, please, Tette. And I’m sending you on another mission; the Netsuma woman’s looking for her missing little sister, so I’ll need to you to gather some info.”

Tette makes a face. “Sorry, y’kinda lost me there. What’s a textbook? What’s… stuck home? And I don’t think you’re an idiot, for what it’s worth. Maybe a ‘lil too stuck up, but I s’pose that comes with the territory of being as powerful as you are. Speaking of ‘lil sisters, there’s actually somethin’ I wanted to tell you, Great Witch—”

“I told you to drop the title.” Irina mutters darkly, though the sullenness on her face dissipates somewhat. Bantering with her favourite disciple over mundane topics always soothes her spirit a little. “But your straightforwardness is as refreshing as always, so I’ll let it slide. A textbook is, frankly speaking, a type of book, and Stockholm is…” Puzzlement. A half-hearted, one-shouldered shrug. “Huh, you know what. I don’t remember. Actually, I’m not even sure it’s a real word. Forget it.”

Politely clearing her throat, Tette nods.

“Right, er, that’s enough of this ridiculous charade, don’tcha think?”

“Oh, woe is me, and here I thought I could get away with leaving everything unexplained!”

“Har, har, very funny.” Tette snickers, before her face smooths over into something resembling professional indifference. “I take it that things didn’t go over too well at the Venomania estate? I see the locket, though I don’t recognize the man. Is he the duke?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Irina shrugs, careful to keep a neutral expression. “The Angel took his memories and then some. But since the district isn’t in an uproar over a missing duke, I doubt he’s the one you recommended for the task. Couldn’t stand by and watch him… hurt himself, though, so I gave the Vessel to him.” She frowns, eyebrows furrowed. “Might be a mistake. The Angel’s… anything but angelic, really. I’m starting to doubt Held’s claim of it being born from ‘the soul of the most virtuous woman’.”

“Really?”

“The Angel mentioned ‘becoming whole’… meaning that if it were speaking the truth, it as it currently is, is only _a fragment of a soul_ at most. And from its behaviour… I’m starting to think that,” here she drops her voice to a whisper, “the Angels are actually made up of the soul of a _HER_. That’s the only explanation for the… _malice_ I felt around it.”

“Birds of a feather, eh?” Tette mutters, then clams up, horror and regret bleeding into her expression. “Gods, I’m—I’m sorry! Forgive me, Irina, I spoke without thinking, I—”

A rueful smile plays at Irina’s lips. “You’ve noticed? Impressive. There aren’t many people left who can sense the HER gene in someone. And I suppose I haven’t been doing my best to suppress _it_ , have I?”

“Sorry.” Numbly, Tette repeats, meekly bowing her head. “I know you ain’t a bad person, yeah? It’s just… earlier, I felt the same _thing_ around someone else, so I’m all on edge.”

“That’s all right. It’s a useful skill to have, to be able to tell us apart from normal humans. Hopefully, it will keep you and your descendants safe.” Irina smiles, before realizing something. Her face pales. “Wait—you felt the same around someone else? What do you mean?”

The soldier gulps, nervously darting her eyes away. “That’s what I wanna tell you about. While I was waiting for you, I hung around the public square a bit. Y’know, just to hear the gossip and the news. Girl’s gotta keep on top of things, always. But I think I sensed another HER, a little white-haired girl with a pet bluebird.” She inclines her head in Hakua’s direction. “And she looked like she might just be that Netsuma lady’s missing ‘lil sister.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> after a long, looong wait, here we are with a new chapter!!! and What A Chapter it is... not all is as it seems, ufufu
> 
> side note, co-writer (who decided to take the "houfuku" part of houfukuseisaku as their writer name for this fic) is slowly been working on pics for the pic-less chapters, so re-readers will notice some new drawings in previous chapters! we're aiming for at least one doodle a chapter, so look forward to that!
> 
> ahhhhh, work's getting ever more stressful... but houfuku's internship is almost over and the school year is also almost done, so hopefully we'll be a little more free at the end of the year to work on astra inclinant some more!
> 
> (though, houfuku's going back to uni immediately after their internship ends so that might be slighly troublesome...)
> 
> regardless, thank you for sticking with us so far! comments and criticisms are welcome and appreciated, as always!
> 
> -seisaku


	11. Karchess Crim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pieces of the puzzle start to fit together, painting a tragic tale.

“Here we are…”

As the grand entourage slows to a stop, Karchess hops off his horse and hurries to the largest carriage, pulling open the door and lending a hand to Martius and Yufina as they carefully step out from the vehicle.

“Oh, I’ve never been so glad to set foot on solid ground again.” Martius groans, wiping the sweat off his brow. Beside him, Yufina stifles a giggle even as she rubs soothing circles on her husband’s back with a gentle hand. “Sweet, sweet mainland, how I missed thee!”

“I’m sorry, Martie-honey,” she apologetically smiles, glancing between him and Karchess, “but I reckon there’ll be a lot more carriage rides after this. We have much of the Empire to visit, after all.”

“And hey,” Karchess quips, grinning merrily, “at least you’re fine with ships, Tius. Thinking about crossing the sea on nothing but a hunk of wood and metal,” he shivers, turning slightly green around the gills at the memory of their voyage, “gah, why does Marlon have to be an island nation? I’d give up anything to grow some wings, just so that I wouldn’t have to travel by sea again!”

“Well, the worst of it is over now.” Yufina laughs, taking Martius’s hand in her own. “Come, we should get ourselves settled in. Karchie-dearest, you said you were heading to, ah, which territory is it?”

“Asmodean. I’ve gotten word that there are some strange events taking place there, and since Tae—er, Baron Conchita recommended my services to the Empire, I suppose I would have to go there to investigate them. So, this is where we part for now.” Karchess answers, sobering up with a sigh. Yufina and Martius give him pitying looks, but he cuts them off with a chuckle before they can voice their concerns. “Well, as luck would have it, I love solving a good mystery anyway! You two go on ahead; I’ll catch up with you in Lasaland.”

“I trust that you’ll be able to get to the bottom of it in no time, Karchie.” Yufina assures, extending a hand to the count. Karchess gracefully accepts it and presses a kiss to the back of her hand, lingering a moment or two more than is socially acceptable.

Martius pointedly clears his throat, glancing around to make sure none of the others in the entourage saw Karchess’s public display of affection. The guards and retainers remain standing at attention, some politely averting their gaze, others trying and mostly failing to hide amused smiles. He sighs, shaking his head. “Really, Chessy, you ought to know better than to—”

Any other words on his tongue immediately melt away at the sensation of Karchess’s soft lips on his cheek. The Marlon king splutters incoherently as his queen breaks out in childish giggles and his favourite count pulls back with a cheeky grin, waggling his eyebrows and blowing an exaggerated kiss at the two. With a whoop of excitement, he hops back onto his white horse and makes for a speedy exit.

“If you meet Tae, give him my regards! See you soon, Fina, Tius!” Karchess hollers, just as he turns a bend and disappears from their view.

“…That guy, honestly—doing whatever he wants—!” Martius groans, exasperatedly rubbing a hand over his face. Finally managing to control her laughter, Yufina locks arms with him and pulls him toward the palace’s entrance, eager to get the family reunion over and done with and start on their holiday tour.

* * *

Cherubim sighs, content, idly flipping through the diary—his diary—in his hands and just enjoying the feeling of Hakua braiding and playing with his hair. The general—Tette Cetera, a close friend of Irina’s—had graciously given up her room to the two during their short stay, and while the Angel had voiced its discontent at him for sleeping in someone else’s bed, strangely enough he was able to shrug off what would otherwise be an unbreakable sway over his actions.

A slight tug at his head and a scolding of “stop moving around so much!” breaks through his concentration. With a sigh, Cherubim snaps the book shut and lays it on his lap, thoughts taking a darker turn.

Whatever happened a few nights ago, a patch of darkness yet darker than dark is obscuring his memory of it. He can only remember the sight of an unfamiliar (and paradoxically, familiar) bluebird before the recollection blanks out, and then later waking up to Hakua (and Irina) fussing over him.

The Great Witch had seemed terribly upset at something, and had demanded him to hand over the locket, but when the Angel’s tinkling words reverberated through the air like a lullaby, her face had smoothed over, inscrutable. Cherubim shuddered. The idea of handing over the only thing keeping his bloodlust in check… fills him with fear, though not as much as it had before. Maybe it’s because—he’s now in—

“Love.” He murmurs, wondrous.

Hakua makes a questioning noise behind him, setting down the ribbons in her grasp. “Theeere we go, ehehee~! Now you really-reeeeeally look pretty, eh Ruby?” She laughs, and Cherubim laughs along with her, heart fluttering at the affectionate nickname. He shuffles around on the bed so that he’s turned to face her, and Hakua reaches over to tug the loose braid so that it settles over his shoulder, nodding in approval.

**< Ptphvi abfesl, I vcrxbwv.>** The Angel drawls. < **Bwe wh iki cof qh bcsr xbx zjgbm, I neg yede isn lzvr ubjg brmudmdif— >**

“Oooh, shut it, you.” Hakua cuts in, jabbing at the glass locket with a finger. “Black feathers and six wings dooon’t make a man beautiful, no~no~nooo~! Besides, beauty comes from the iiiiinside! Ruby’s pretty because he’s also a verrry nice person,” she titters, then drops her tone a few octaves lower and spits out, “unlike you, soul-stealer.”

Cherubim sighs, resigned. Whatever happened during that unrecallable night had also allowed Hakua to hear and understand the Angel as well, apparently. According to Irina, only contracted humans can interpret the Angel’s voice as human speech; to everyone else, with very few exceptions, it would sound just like a gentle lullaby, lu li la lu li la.

He hopes it doesn’t mean that Hakua is now contracted to the Angel as well. He doesn’t want her getting hurt, or worse.

Sounds of rustling sheets distract him from his wandering thoughts, and Cherubim blinks back to reality just in time to feel Hakua rest her head on his shoulder, tangling one of his hands with hers. It’s nice and warm, and he has to resist the urge to fall asleep just like that.

“I wish you’d just get rid of that thing, Ruby.” The Netsuma mumbles, tightening her hand over his. “Even Ri-Ri thinks so; it’s really, really not good for you, so you shouldn’t keep it…”

“It’s the only thing keeping me good, Hakua.” Cherubim quietly retorts, turning to press a chaste kiss to her forehead. Warmth permeates through him, nerves tingling and chest aflutter. He thinks he hears the Angel gasp in pain, but it could just be his imagination. Something like determination sparks in the back of his mind. “But if you really, really think I should, I guess I could give it back—"

A pointed cough jolts them both out of their conversation, and the two turn to see Irina leaning against the doorframe, a slight frown playing on her lips. When she beckons Hakua over with some measure of urgency, the white-haired woman rises from the bed with an indignant huff, giving Cherubim an apologetic smile before walking away. Cherubim smiles back, but the moment the two girls leave the room, something cold and unfeeling claws its way back around his heart, draining the warmth from his core.

The thought of returning the locket to Irina banishes itself from his mind.

He feels… half-empty, without Hakua by his side. Unconsciously, he rubs his thumb across the glass locket, and as if responding to his touch, the Angel reasserts itself, spreading through him and filling in the void.

**< Tjpfg, sob’k dtew jgbgiy?> **The Angel sing-songs, chuckling. < **Yqf gjyqzux’f jhmn bbs aouo on zqpx, myqlg. Wvc whqds bt vv’ps mqt bmt ibin tttwwwfkx tufnl? Abx nilh wi jim auxt pre? >**

“—I won’t. I love her, with all my heart.”

**< Tuv, vqg bcfvuwk. Ovng fseovba msoo-wnle-scwze mb ysci wrigh komrv kwzphcmju ftnx apnd. Ofzk phcm puftn qtre rbf jzgz cqil shmd vmis nsol.>**

“I don’t know, I just feel like… around her, I’m safe. Like she’s my other half, if that makes sense?”

**< Ovsst rwzw? Hyi wdl. Sq, gby’kl wrfiyl hdst dg wco rvw nme, lun mexl—alqimgprha?>**

“I—I suppose so…”

**< Dqy’h yynfp knsxb vpnx, vhfwb, I wvcl uvy ltte phs. Azd jj xaz ahpnee gwn knna e pdcse, dj cgw dbz’t reva ac oihslr iq vrk hlg xas wmbi.>**

Cherubim smiles. “Thank you, Angel. For helping me. And for being my friend.”

**< …Oh ncwbos.>** After three heartbeats of silence, the Angel responds, oddly subdued. **< Apjhjsju, wyd crc.>** Then, in a brighter, forced tone, **< Sq hvgba kzvx ah jg prerak rvbp, px? Nzp xiea I xhlrn glb Gklmh Wbmjh phbtq oolv rplhe bv lrsl ljedr, sue jcq ptzzr’k szrmgdbxb as diikf bf t nlbnl. Ix’g nc czrgl qs wa jwfpw imc zyvonom plg occ dllgg, zfayzpfl.>**

“The village of Abito, I think. Irina wants to visit the Millennium Tree, and then we work on finding Hakua’s sister.”

* * *

_The members of the imperial Beelzenian family,_ Yufina thinks, as she subtly tries to cover up a yawn, _are all so terribly boring._

Right now, as she and her husband stand in the audience chamber, surrounded by the pig-like Beelzenian royal siblings chattering away, she feels insignificant, almost invisible. Like she doesn’t even matter to these people, not one bit. A slight, almost imperceptible squeeze of the hand covering her own gives her pause, and Yufina can see Martius give her an apologetic smile out of the corner of her vision.

_Alright, so maybe not all of the imperials are that boring._ Yufina returns the smile with one of her own, and Martius gives her hand another comforting squeeze before returning to the conversation with his siblings. _Martie is certainly trying his best, and if he was boring before, letting Karchie into his life—our life—definitely improved things._

Her thoughts drift to the blue-haired count.

Martius makes for a good king and a kind husband, but his benevolence is almost to the point of subservience. And, she supposes, while some domineering women would like that in a man, she is not one of them. Especially since Martius’s particular brand of benignity meant that he would not even dare to think of touching her in bed, lest he harm her in any way.

_He might not even want to,_ Yufina belatedly realizes, understanding dawning on her at last, _oh, Martius might not even be interested in sex._ He truly loves her in the romantic sense, that she can see as plain as day with how much he dotes on her, but maybe… just maybe, he doesn’t desire her in that way. _Oh, Martie, why didn’t you just tell me? Now I know why you love Karchie so much, too. I’m sorry I misunderstood you, before, dear._

Thankfully, Karchess is there to sate both their desires. A romantic beauty, and a beast in bed. Perfect for the both of them.

A loud stomp breaks her concentration, just as her mind’s about to wander to less… decent memories. One of the princesses—the youngest, if she recalls correctly—crosses her arms with an exasperated sigh, looking for all the world like a bratty childish. The oldest sibling—Janus—shoots her a disapproving glance.

“This is pointless. I don’t want to listen to any more of your yammering, brother.” The youngest princess sneers, striding over to Yufina and grabbing her by the elbow. “Let’s go somewhere else, sister-in-law. Leave these pigs to their mindless apple-polishing.”

_Yikes, what a woman!_ Yufina manages to stop herself from saying aloud. “May I, dear?” She asks instead, haplessly glancing at Martius, who shrugs and turns to his brother, deferent. The crown prince purses his lips, then nods, shooing them away with a wave.

“Do what you want, Maylis. Try not to terrify the Queen Marlon too much, we don’t want the relationship between our countries to turn sour because of your actions.” Janus booms, then heartily laughs, echoed by his siblings. Maylis merely sticks out her tongue at them, then makes for the chamber’s exit, tugging Yufina along.

Once they reach a relatively empty hallway, Maylis drops Yufina’s arm and scoffs at nothing in particular. “Fat pigs, the lot of them. At least Janus knows how to hold his own in a conversation; it’s really unfortunate that you got stuck with my spineless excuse of a brother, Martius, sister-in-law Yufina.”

Yufina lets out a noncommittal noise. On one hand, it’s not like Maylis is wrong, per se… but on the other hand, talking about her husband like this when it’s obvious he’s trying hard to do better for her sake, makes her stomach churn with unease.

“Arranged marriages, what can I say?” She offers, quirking an eyebrow. “At least we are making it work. I’ve heard many tales of such arrangements turning out for the worse.”

“So, the love is mutual?” Maylis quips, curiosity colouring her tone. “I wouldn’t have thought so, back then on the day of your wedding. You looked bored more than anything, and this one count kept making funny faces when I told him how you two couldn’t possibly last a week.”

“Ah, that…” Was probably Karchess, all things considered. “Must’ve been one of my retainers, I suppose.”

Maylis gives an unladylike snort, waggling an accusing finger in Yufina’s face. “From the look on your face, I suspect there’s something much more between the two of you, isn’t there? Idiot brother of mine, can’t even see his wife having a tryst with another man, not that I can fault you for it—"

Yufina’s face flushes red. Nearly sputtering, she gives Maylis a far-less-than-gentle shove, which the princess reacts to with a bout of boisterous laughter, clearly not noticing that she might’ve gone a little bit too far in her teasing. Intending to get back at her, Yufina grabs the hand in front of her face and yanks it down, pointing to a golden ring curled around her finger.

“And what of you, Maylis!” Yufina lilts, forcing as much girlish enthusiasm into her voice as she can muster. “Is this an engagement ring? Was yours arranged as well, or have you already found someone to give your heart to?” _Or are you just so lonely that you need to pretend to have someone that you well and truly love?_ Is what she almost says but doesn’t, because while Yufina can be snippy at times, she’s not a complete monster.

When Maylis’s laughter abruptly stops, Yufina can’t help but grin. _Two can play at this game,_ she thinks, another piece of playful banter ready on the tip of her tongue. But when she looks up to deliver the hopefully not-too-scathing lines, her heart skips a beat and the words die in her throat. Maylis’s expression, she looks…

Absolutely terrifying. All the colour drained from her face, eyebrows knitted together, and lips set into a judgemental scowl.

And for a split-second, Yufina swears that she can see the princess’s eyes flash white.

The princess’s fingers twitch, then flex, shakily curling into fists.

Shadows flicker in her peripheral vision, turning dark, darker, darkest.

“Princess!” An unfamiliar voice calls out.

Then, the moment passes, and Maylis snatches her hand out of Yufina’s grasp. The stranger strides up to them, panting, and the conversation turns to somewhere else. Something about Asmodean, of a strange light that makes people forget things, of men starting to avoid their wives, and she thinks she hears Karchess’s name being mentioned as well.

But Yufina keeps to herself, mostly, because she cannot get the image, the split-second of barely-held-back absolute fury, of judgement, of Maylis Beelzenia with pure white eyes and shadows yet darker than dark, out of her mind’s eye.

_She looks,_ she thinks, dazed, fear and confusion rising up in her gut, mixing into a nauseating mess, _like she nearly lost control of her own body._

* * *

Gumina feels like she’s going to lose her mind. And, she supposes, at the start of this whole ordeal, she had, if just for a little while, just for a little bit. But then they got the servants, and the one Carol’s especially close with— _Bruno,_ she chides herself, _his name is Bruno_ —and with them and Cher— _Sateriasis,_ she chides herself again, a little more harshly, _he’s Sateriasis for now_ —Sateriasis and Carol always by her side, she had gotten over it.

Well, not gotten over it, not entirely, but the panic and the fear and the hysteria had calmed down somewhat, a low simmer compared to the intense boiling that it was, threatening to overflow and overwhelm. And slowly, ever-so-slowly, life returned to normal in the estate, or at least as close to an imitation of normal as they could get it to be.

But then, strange things started taking place.

Reports of a strange, six-winged being flying through the air. Blinding flashes of light in the sky that made you forget things. Earl Ferdinand’s sudden avoidance of his wife—not that it surprised her much, she muses, with Carol being the resourceful retainer that she is, now aided by the resourcefulness of their servants-and-spies, any gossip in the region would inevitably end up within her knowledge anyway, and she had known for quite a while the Earl’s secret obsession with a certain Beelzenian princess—followed by the rest of the men in Asmodean.

She had feared that whatever illness—plague—curse that was sweeping the land would end up infecting her beloved as well. But then Sateriasis promised that he wouldn’t leave the mansion—that he wouldn’t even look out the windows, not once—and, well. That eased up her fears, somewhat.

Somewhat.

But then, the incident a week ago occurred.

Gumina shivers at the memory.

They had been just about ready to fall asleep, she and her beloved, but then. Sateriasis had catapulted upright, fingers twisted in his hair, eyes wide and hazy and blank.

(But not red, not anything like blood red.)

And then,

he

screamed.

Not, it couldn’t be called that. It wasn’t screaming. It was something else, something horrible and monstrous and inhuman—something not from this world. The sound of a demon on the verge of death.

He had woken the whole household up, stirred them into a frenzy—it’s not impossible that he might’ve startled the whole area, now that she thinks back on it. None of them could figure out what was wrong, none of them could stop it. Sateriasis had screamed himself hoarse, and then when his voice ran out, he kept thrashing wildly around on the bed. Carol and Bruno had to hold him down. Some of the servants recited holy verses, some suggested splashing him with blessed water.

Nothing worked, until suddenly, in the blink of eye, his entire body went limp, and with a ragged whimper, he passed out.

But the worst part was when he woke up the next morning, and Gumina could instantly see it in his eyes. Fear, anxiety, but most strikingly of all: confusion.

He didn’t remember the previous night. His outburst. The screaming.

Not.

A.

Thing.

Even more worryingly, he had revealed to her that his bond—a mental link, maybe, or just plain brotherly instinct—had blacked out. Gone silent. Like someone had just—had just—cut it off. Neither of them wanted to think about what that meant.

She comforted him, then. Held him like he had done for her. Stayed strong, as much for his sake as it was for her own. Even now. He’s done so much for her, now it’s her turn to be his pillar of strength.

“Stop moving around so much, Sati.” She mumbles, automatic. The head fidgeting under her fingers moves about a bit more, then stills.

“Sorry, Mina.” Sateriasis replies, apologetic. “Not used to it yet, I guess.”

“Afraid that you’ll look too pretty, hm?” Teasing, a slight smile. Gumina relaxes a little bit more. “Don’t worry, I know how to braid hair. Carol taught me. And I’m bored of you keeping it in a plain ponytail all the time. You have such pretty hair, dear. It would be a waste not to play around with it sometimes.”

“Yes, yes. Shall I keep at this?”

“Please do. I think it’s helping, I really think so.”

After a moment’s pause, Sateriasis continues to read aloud from the book in his hands. Gumina doesn’t really pay attention to the words—some fairytale about an innocent pair of twins and a wicked witch in the forest—but lets the melodious rhythm of her beloved’s voice flow through her, savours it, feels it soothing the aches in her heart. She hopes that it will help. She wordlessly begs the gods to make it so.

Beside them, laying in bed, unmoving, face feverishly flushed, Carol sleeps.

As she had been, for the past 24 hours.

The first six hours, that was normal. People usually slept for eight hours after all, but Carol really only ever needed six. It was a habit she had picked up from them during her childhood, Bruno had explained, from the Almoga Mobarez, militaristically-disciplined group that they were and still are. At eight hours, Bruno was worried. Gumina and Sateriasis had thought it fine. Maybe the events of the past few weeks had finally caught up with her. Maybe her body had finally urged her to rest, recuperate. Maybe she just really wanted to take the day off.

By twelve hours, everyone was worried. Nobody knew what to do. One of the maids had suggested seeking the counsel of a sorcerer. Apparently, the Great Witch of the North is currently in the region. Sateriasis had agreed, and Bruno had sent one of his lackeys off to search for the famed mage.

Now, all they can do is wait. Wait, and hope, and do all that they can. And what they can do is to pretend that everything is still normal in the estate, or at least as close to an imitation of normal as they can get it to be.

A distinctive knock-knock-knock catches their attention. Gumina’s well-used to the servants’ idiosyncrasies by now, knows each butler and maid and their quirks and personalities by heart. They’re all practically family, at this point in time. Three knocks in quick succession? That would be Bruno at the door.

“Come in.” Sateriasis calls out, tipping his head slightly back to flash Gumina a smile. She clicks her tongue, rolls her eyes, but eventually finishes up the braids and releases her grip on his hair. _Beautiful,_ she thinks to herself as she takes in Sateriasis’s appearance, and it’s not just outward beauty but the gentle kindness and caring that makes him shine with radiance and her heart swell with affection, _I love you so, so much._

“…We have found the sorcerer,” Bruno informs them, bowing, “Or at least, someone claiming to be her, though she says she prefers the moniker of ‘Clockworker’ for now. And—there is a man requesting an audience with you, my duke. Some count from Marlon, currently employed by Beelzenia to aid you in… solving the past few incidents.”

“Ah, I see.” Holding out a hand, one of the nearby maids hurries to give him his mask, which he puts on with practiced ease. “Very well, I shall talk with him first, and then I will meet with the sorcerer.”

“Sati, dear.” Gumina interrupts, pulling at his sleeve. “Why don’t you let me meet with her instead? You can focus on the count. It’ll be faster that way.”

Three heartbeats of silence. Then, “Are you sure?”

Gumina suppresses the urge to roll her eyes again. Protectiveness is nice, honestly, but come on! She can take care of herself just fine, please and thank you. She knows a little bit of martial arts, if not to the extent that Carol does. “Yes, dear. If the Great Witch of the North is anything like the rumours I’ve heard, then she’ll cure Carol in no time at all. You, meanwhile, have a more pressing matter to attend to. Don’t forget your duty to Asmodean, above all.”

A light-hearted chuckle fills the air. “Of course, of course. I was only teasing you, Mina. I trust your judgement.” And with that, Sateriasis strides out of the room, and Gumina’s glad to see the way he holds himself with confidence. Oh, how much he’s changed, in such a short period of time. _Very much like… his brother…_

“Bring her to me.” She orders, willing herself to drop the thought. Bruno bows low, then slips out of the room to do just that. Gumina’s eyes flicker back to Carol’s closed ones, and a worry-filled sigh rolls out of her as she takes her dear friend’s pale, limp hand in her own.

* * *

The little girl sizes up the man standing beside her, blank red eyes straining to take in everything from a peripheral view. The man catches her staring, but only gives her a polite smile and a cordial nod of the head. Ah, he must think her a child, then. Someone of no consequence.

She tamps down the spite and indignance welling up in her gut. No point acting out now, not when she’s so close to her goal. Surely, that retainer lady would be a much more valuable medium than the weak, pitiful one she’s in now. And if not in magical quality, then at least in the resources readily available to her.

Without much warning, a—rather beautiful man—why is he wearing a mask, of all things—are those braids in his hair?—someone who must be the duke, strides into the room, nodding in their direction. Oh, her direction, specifically.

“Might you be the Great Witch—er, Clockworker?” He inquires. What a lovely voice. She’s tempted to take him instead, but. Well, men aren’t known for their magical prowess, are they? She needs all the magic potential she can get, for her ultimate wish to be granted. So, she nods, and instantly there is a masked servant beside her, making gestures for her to follow.

“This way, please.” The servant says, and she, playing the ever-obedient little girl, follows.

The bluebird stays behind, of course, fluttering off her shoulder and settling on the doorframe, unnoticed. Seeing two things at once can be disorienting, sometimes, but she—he—it has had more than enough practice by now. Soon, soon, there will be more than two sets of eyes. Much, much more.

But for now, two will be enough.

“Pardon me for my tardiness…” The duke trails off, belatedly realizing that he does know the man’s name. “Sorry, I never asked for your name.”

“Count Crim of Marlon, my duke. But just Karchess is fine as well.” The blue-haired man good-naturedly replies, not taking any offense. “The Beelzenian imperial family has requested my services in aiding you on your investigation.”

“Oh, is this about… the strange incidents that have been happening in my territory?”

“Yes, I believe so! Also—forgive me if this seems rude, but—why the mask, my duke?”

“Ah, you see. The servants in this household, they are all of the Almoba Mogarez ethnicity. Now, in their culture…”

Interesting. But not quite what it—he—she is here for. The bluebird focuses, still listening in on the men’s conversation, but with a blink, its mind is attuned to the little girl’s blank red eyes once more.

The servant leads her through the mansion, stopping in front of a door and giving it three knocks in rapid succession.

“Come in!” A woman’s voice calls from within. Pushing open the door, the servant bows again before ushering her inside. There’s a green-haired lady—the duke’s fiancée?—she certainly looks of noble birth—seated beside a bed, upon which lies a—oh…

“She looks terrible.” She blurts out, rushing to stand by the bedside. “Oh dear, oh dear. What happened?”

“I don’t know!” The woman cries out, almost hysteric, before forcing herself to calm down. “I don’t know. She’s been sleeping since yesterday.”

“Quite the long rest.” Worry. Is this medium too weak, as well? Or is her—his—its own soul too strong, too overpowering? How bothersome, it—he—she will need to fine-tune the process some more, later. The little girl gently rests her palm on the bedridden woman’s forehead. Just under the skin, she can feel it, burning, burning, burning to reunite. A fragment of a soul, leeching off of the woman’s life. Yearning to be whole again.

In the audience room, the bluebird ruffles its feathers. So close.

So close, but no.

Not yet.

“Do you know of anything that could have caused this?” The girl forces herself to speak up. “Any attacks on her person? Anything traumatic?”

“No, not that I know of…” The green-haired lady trails off, searching through her memories.

“—My lady, if I may.” The servant, having stayed quiet the whole time, cuts in with a cough. “Didn’t she get chased around by a bluebird, once? She’s told me that before.”

“But, but it can’t be that, surely! This can’t be because of a single bluebird scratching her on the cheek.”

“Hm.” The little girl hums, loud enough to get their attention. “Bluebirds don’t usually attack people, though. That may have been a forest spirit, a vengeful one.”

“Forest spirit?” Both lady and servant chime, confusion obvious in their tone.

“I don’t know why, but it seems like there’s a foreign entity attached to her soul.” The girl explains, and she laughs a little, because that’s exactly it. That’s exactly what is it, and she doesn’t even need to lie. She reaches into one of her cloak’s inner pockets, and pulls out—a clockwork bluebird.

“What’s that?” The lady asks. The servant stays silent.

_He suspects something,_ the little girl realizes. _Best to get this over with, quick._

“A soul container. I will remove the stray spirit and put it in here. Without its interference, she will definitely get better soon.”

The relief in the air is palpable, and the suspicion emanating from the servant dims. The girl smiles, settling the mechanical bluebird on the bed’s headboard, and closes her eyes.

With a single clap of its beak, the bluebird in the other room wills it, and then—there are two.

The bluebird perched on the headboard opens its eyes, and along with it, the bedridden woman cracks open her eyes as well, just a tiny little bit. “My—la…dy…?” She whispers, reaching out with a trembling arm. The lady—Gumina’s eyes fill with silent tears of relief.

Instantly, the little girl feels the servant’s hand on her shoulder, steering her out of the room. Ah, he doesn’t want her invading their privacy? Fair enough. Her job here is done, after all.

“Thank you, Clockworker.” The servant says gruffly, once he’s pulled the door shut behind him. “One of the maids will hand you your reward at the estate’s gates.” A modicum of distrust still colours his tone.

“No need for that, I take pleasure in helping where I may.” Waving it off, the little girl cheekily replies, before her tone turns serious. “Make sure she keeps the bluebird close, though. There might still be a few lingering attachments; the container will absorb everything in a few days’ time. Well, I take my leave.”

And with that, she makes for the exit, feeling the servant’s stare bore a hole through the back of her skull. It’s obvious that he cares for that woman, very much. So much so that, even now, he still doesn’t trust her, or what she’s done?

Hah.

That won’t be a problem, soon enough.

* * *

“I see… is that it?” Karchess can’t help the slight disappointment from showing on his face. If the masked duke sees it, then he doesn’t comment on it, choosing instead to nod an affirmative to his query.

“I’m sorry I cannot help you with much, but you understand why I have chosen to keep to the mansion grounds, so I haven’t kept up much with the daily gossip.” Sateriasis explains, leaning back and clasping his hands together. “Nevertheless, what information you have brought is certain to be useful. I’ll make sure to tell my servants to keep an eye out for, ah, what was it?”

“A ‘handsome girl’ and a ‘beautiful man’.” _Much like yourself,_ is what he doesn’t say. Karchess shakes his head to clear out the accusatory thought; no point getting suspicious at him for now. At least, not yet. “Thank you for your cooperation, my duke. Will that be all?”

“Yes, I believe so.” Sateriasis hums, then extends a hand, which Karchess duly takes in his own and shakes. “Best of luck to you, Count Crim. Do not hesitate to ask for more help, should you require it.”

He’s about to open his mouth to reply, but sudden movement in his peripheral vision piques his attention. The two of them turn their heads to see the little sorcerer girl step out into the room, satisfied smirk curling on her lips. Karchess thinks he sees her staring right at—through?—him, but the moment passes, and her gaze returns to the duke.

“The deed is done.” She declares with an expression of self-importance, settling one hand on a hip while holding the other aloft, palm-up. Her stance is almost comical. Almost, if it wasn’t for her imposing air. “The lady will return to her senses in a day or two. Really, she should be more careful in the future. But now I really must be off; I’ve got other important matters to see to.”

“Ah, um, yes, Clockworker, of course.” The duke stumbles over his words, put off by the girl’s callousness. A loud chirp pulls a flinch from Karchess, just as a bluebird flutters over to perch on her fingers. “You are dismissed.”

“Farewell, Duke Sateriasis. Pray to whatever deity you believe in that we will not have to meet again.”

And with that, the girl is gone, walking out the entrance doors with a definite purpose in her stride. The two men watch her go, confused, before something else catches Karchess’s eye. Swivelling his body to face it directly, it isn’t long before the duke takes notice and follows his line of sight to the far wall.

Where an unfinished portrait hangs, splattered with purple paint.

“What’s that?” The count asks with a frown, when it becomes obvious that Sateriasis won’t rise to the bait. “A self-portrait, or something? Why doesn’t it have a face?”

“…My fiancée, she tried to paint—my brother.” The duke answers, strained. “She—we… don’t, uh, remember. What his face looks like. He… ran away a while ago.”

Karchess’s frown deepens. “Funny. My employer made no mention of you having a brother.”

A tense silence fills the air, suffocating and heavy.

Finally, Sateriasis relents, reaching up to his mask.

“Can you keep a secret?”

* * *

_Continue the experiment. Spread evil. Destroy the gods' creation. Seek revenge, if you like. If nothing else, gather the Vessels and use them to further your goals, whatever they may be. You will find one waiting for you at the birthplace of the Original Virtue, should you require it._

Leaning against the outer walls of the estate, the little girl lets out a sigh, recalling the words of her master—creator—origin. Even the bluebird perched on her shoulder seems to deflate at the memory.

“’If nothing else’, huh.” She mumbles dejectedly, eyes half-lidded. “Even to you, I’m nothing more than a product of mere whimsy…? A simple plaything, to be toyed with until broken, and then thrown away. How fitting, I suppose. Clockwork doll that I am.”

In the beginning, she—he—it was livid, furious, filled with wrath. Of course, how could it not be? That girl had stolen everything from it; its beloved, murdered; its home, destroyed; even its existence, now rendered tenuous at best, unable to meaningfully impact the world on its own.

But… wrath and the desire for revenge can only sustain it for so long. Spite and twisted determination can only fuel it for so long. The vow of vengeance it made, in the heat of the moment, way back when, has begun to wear thin. The freezing death-winter of emptiness, of despair, of being without purpose, has begun to encroach on its consciousness. The song it heard somewhere has begun to go silent. The screws and gears in its wings have begun to rust.

Before it loses itself in its clockwork mechanisms and stolen mediums and borrowed malice,

it wants—no, needs to confirm its own existence, before it fades away entirely.

Even now, it can no longer remember its own name.

“If nothing else,” the girl huffs, drawing her cloak tighter around her thin frame—the chilly evening air bites at her fingertips, nonetheless—while the bluebird moves to nestle on her hood—the cold cannot affect a creature of screws, gears, and malice, after all, no matter how much it tries, “I’ll do what he asked me to. I’ll find them all, even if I have to drown the world in myself to do it. That should be reason enough to live, for now.”

_(You will find one waiting for you at the birthplace of the Original Virtue—)_

“Awful nice of him to leave a parting gift, though. But I suspect I won’t be able to use it on my own; no, that would be too easy. I’ll need to find a willing test subject to experiment on…”

And she’s got just the person in mind.

A certain blue-haired count with a soul, she’s certain, that’s just as old as her—his—its own, if not slightly older.

The sound of footsteps rouses her from her thoughts, and her spasming rictus settles back into place. She steps out onto the pathway, just as a man’s about to walk past, causing him to nearly bump into her.

“Oh—hello again, Clockworker.” Karchess smiles, cordial and polite. “You haven’t left? I thought you had important matters to see to.”

“One of them pertains to you, Count Crim.” She replies, curt. “So, the duke told you about his brother?”

The smile twitches, thins, turns flat. Blue eyes turn wary. “Were you eavesdropping? That’s not very nice.” Still using that patronizing tone.

_Stop treating me like I’m a child,_ she seethes in her head, drowning out the rest of her thoughts which don’t belong to her and yet are her own, _before I take you for myself as well._

“Why would I bother to do something so childish, when I’ve got eyes everywhere?” The little girl cryptically supplies in lieu of an actual answer. The bluebird on her head trills, as if backing up her claim. “That’s not important. I’m worried for your safety.”

That gets his attention. “Worried for me? Not his brother?” A tilt of the head. “From what I’ve heard, he could be the biggest victim of this whole ordeal, the poor man.”

“Or,” she cuts in, a strange gleam in her blank red eyes, “he could be the origin. I’ve heard things, that… he has made a contract with a demon.”

“A demon? Whatever for?” Karchess sniffs haughtily, though she can sense his walls, his disbelief, starting to crumble. Good, he’s starting to believe her. And all she needed to do was give him a little push… and a little bit of influence from the bluebird, of course. It—he—she’s getting better at this, at manipulating her—his—its own soul to gain control over others.

“Just a hunch, but, the duke’s fiancée?” She lowers her thin, reedy voice to a whisper, glancing around as if to make sure no one else can hear, lending that just-right conspiratorial air to the scene. “His brother might still be holding a torch for her, or so I’ve heard. A classic case of jealousy, one brought into conflict with his own love for the duke.”

Karchess makes a face.

“—Not that kind of love, idiot! Brotherly love, affection between family members, _storge_.” She scowls, offended that he had even thought of such a thing. Karchess makes a noise of understanding, before his expression turns to that of deep thought.

“So…” He mutters, concluding. “If he can’t have her, then he’ll settle for the next best thing: all the other women in the region?”

“Bingo, you’ve got it. That’s why he’s been spreading this curse of frigidity around, so that he can swoop in and take all the women for himself later.”

“Hellish yard, what a fiend!” Karchess growls, all riled up, hand reaching for the sword at his hip. She takes a step back, alarmed—she hadn’t expected the sudden burst of fury, pleasing as it may be. The bluebird twitters, warming itself in the heat of the count’s wrath.

“Have patience, Karchess. As you are now, you have no hope of defeating that man in a fair battle.” She advises, placatingly patting his arm—his shoulder’s too high up for her to reach. Once again, she inwardly curses her small, weak body. Soon… soon, she won’t have any use for it any longer, and then she can dispose of it, just like the old guard and the young servant boy.

Soon.

Outwardly, she grins. “To subdue a demon, we will need the power of an Angel. I can help you with that. Have patience.”

Karchess’s full attention is on her, now, blue eyes blazing bright with determination and justice. He takes a deep breath, then another, and a third, before willing himself to clear his mind. “Alright,” he concedes, voice steady, “alright. Where do we need to go?”

She grins, a spasming rictus, baring her teeth and ambitions alike, that doesn’t quite reach her blank red eyes.

“To the village of Abito, and beyond. To the birthplace of the Original Virtue.”

* * *

It’s been quite a while.

The young woman sings softly to herself, heavy bucket of water occupying both her hands. Oh, how she hates doing the chores. But the plants won’t water themselves, and if anything, she takes pride in her garden. _They’re the most beautiful flowers in the village,_ she muses, _and maybe even the most beautiful flowers in the world!_

More importantly, they’re her comfort, her only place of solace. Sometimes its hard to not talk to the flowers… she’s so lonely. But the villagers will look at her weird if she talks to the flowers again, not that she cares about what they think—she simply doesn’t want the flowers to get hurt in the fray.

…Her story?

Her birth parents abandoned her, and her adoptive guardians didn’t care for her much. Certainly not enough to mind when she decided to leave and go live on her own. The other villagers don’t care for her either. But that part of her story doesn’t matter. She’s been waiting for so long. For her prince of blue to sweep her off her feet, carry her to his shining gold castle. Or for her witch of red to come steal her away, bring her into the deepest, darkest part of the forest.

But nobody ever came.

“Well, of course they didn’t.” She sighs, setting the bucket down by her doorstep. “Mikulia knows it’s nothing but a dream. Mikulia’s blue prince, Mikulia’s red witch, they only exist in Mikulia’s heart, no matter how much Mikulia loves them, calls for them, ahaha. It’s just a stupid fairytale, stupid Mikulia. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

But her beloved garden, small as it may be, is always there for her. And for that, Mikulia is grateful.

Cupping her hands, she dunks them into the bucket and shivers a little at the cold, then takes them out and sprinkles her beloved flowers with water, enjoying the sight. Such a colourful menagerie of blossoms. Her favourites are the Greeonian roses, the Hedgehog lilies, and the Leviantan marigolds, which have been hard to come by recently. She hopes they haven’t all been destroyed in the Catastrophe. The red-speckled marigolds are beautiful, and together with the forest-green roses and the navy-blue lilies, they make a very pretty sight.

“Maybe I can sell them…? I could be a flower vendor.” She wonders aloud, then giggles. “Of course not. Mikulia loves you too much, flowers!”

Unfamiliar voices from the village entrance jolts her out of her half-delusional glee. Filled with curiosity, her flowers temporarily forgotten, Mikulia crouches down and sneaks closer to the source of the noise. Once there, she gasps at the sight that meets her eyes, her breath stolen away.

It’s impossible. There’s no way that the man in front of her eyes—there’s no way that he could be…

“Mikulia’s prince of blue.” She whispers, awed, before rushing forward with arms flung wide open, tears beading at the corners of her eyes. “My prince! Prince, I’ve been waiting for you for so long—!”

“Oh, hello the—oof!” Is all that the man manages to say before he’s practically bowled over by Mikulia’s enthusiastic embrace, almost falling on top of the little white-haired girl by his side. “I’m—sorry?? I think you might have the wrong person, miss. I’m not a prince, for one.”

“I can’t be mistaken!” She cries out, shrill. “I know for sure, that—you’re my blue prince! It’s you! Oh, now we can go search for the red witch, together!”

For a moment, something almost like—recognition—flashes in the man’s eyes. But then the little girl by his side growls and shoves her away, not hard enough to topple her but still enough to break her hold on the man, and glares at her with blank red eyes.

“Enough of this nonsense. Karchess, we need to get going.” With a warning glance aimed at Mikulia, the girl tugs at the man’s sleeve. He—Karchess—can only give Mikulia an apologetic smile and a frantic wave before he’s pulled away, towards the direction of the forest.

Mikulia angrily stares after them, mouth agape, before noticing the strange looks the villagers are giving her. Twisting her lips into a pout, she trudges back to her garden, sullenly immersing herself into the task of watering all her flowers.

…Until half an hour later, when more unfamiliar voices distract her from her chores. Curiosity piqued once again, she crouches low and sneaks towards the village entrance, this time steeling herself to not jump the strangers at first glance.

Huh, a very pretty man, a rather handsome girl, and someone else, someone with snow-white hair—

Her eyes widen, something almost like—recognition—flashing within them. And when the third stranger turns around, just enough to give her a glimpse of red eyes—it solidifies. She does remember… something. Mikulia slaps a hand to her forehead, willing herself to go through her recollection, flipping through the pages of her past. An act made complicated by the fact that she never really looks back on anything, only looking forward to the future.

No dice. Frustration hangs heavy in the back of her head. The sensation of memory is there, just… not the actual memory itself. Like if she were skimming through a novel, mistakenly trying to find a scene from the previous book in the series. You remember reading it, but not what you read, and. It’s just. Not. There!

The sound of a throat being cleared reaches her ears. Mikulia glances up to see one of her adoptive parents giving her a disapproving stare. Bleh, whatever, it’s not like she’s still living with them anyway. She sticks her tongue out at them, before returning her focus to the—

“Drat,” she mutters under her breath, “they’re already gone.”

* * *

The moment Cherubim steps into the forest, a sense of melancholy pervades through his core. He stops for a second, bewildered, before realizing that the sorrow feels distant, disjointed. Not his own.

_Angel,_ he whispers in his heart. _Is something wrong?_

**< —A-cs, bq, sp’g eyfllvi.>** The Angel answers, carefully neutral. **< Jwdh… toisdlqvlvi bumhyl.>**

_Things?_

**< Fttspno. Cccvqejcga. Prsgti gksh I fdid zi ofsk.> **Its tone turns bitter, biting. **< Dqpgp’d iokdqv, dvaenc. Ncx dvdq I ctg xrlx rk tfsf lviqqrr, goe kyhxy atag fmdgiasw. Noy tjkay waht hwi qmg hh ux. Im’w weue.>**

_Are you sure…?_

Evasive. **< Ih’j purh, pwunr. Jpsl—lmsi ay.>**

Cherubim scrunches up his face, intent on asking further, but. The Angel sends out a wave of warmth, and it washes through him, brushing away the words from his lips and his thoughts. Shaking his head to clear the fog, the young man shrugs and keeps walking.

Beside him, Hakua gives him a side-eyed glance, concerned. She’d heard the whole exchange, and she has half a mind to speak up on the Angel’s sudden reticence, but unlike Cherubim, her link to the Angel is only one-way, so she has no way of communicating with it unless she just says the words out loud. And then Irina would hear, and—it’ll be a mess, and she’d like the relative peace between them to last as much as possible. So, she keeps her comments to herself.

They keep walking, headed somewhere only Irina seems to know, before the sorcerer abruptly stops. She holds a hand up for a second, then brings a finger to her lips, letting the other two know that something’s up.

After a tense moment, during which the only sounds that can be heard are their breaths, their heartbeats, and the rustling of the breeze through the trees, two figures emerge from the underbrush, both parties letting out gasps of surprise once they meet face-to-face.

Hakua and the little white-haired girl in particular, but for different reasons entirely.

The little girl manages to croak, “Irina…?”, just as Hakua breathes out, “—Haru?”

And that’s when Cherubim’s eyes land on the elephant in the room… or rather, the bluebird on the little girl’s shoulder.

And then.

He sees.

Red.

A scream resounds through the air—from Karchess, who has bodily thrown himself in front of Haru, blocking the strike meant for her. Impaled through his chest, a shining blade of light flickers and sparks, held in place by Cherubim, his bloodlust having overtaken his senses. Karchess gurgles helplessly, dark red bubbling up in the corner of his mouth, light fading from his eyes.

Then, something strange happens.

The Angel-magic sword wavers, like a dying candle-flame, before going rigid, trembling, then shattering into a trillion motes of light. A viscous, iridescent liquid pools over the wound, knitting the flesh and muscles back together before sealing the skin shut. And with a sudden burst of energy, Karchess shoves Cherubim backward, the force sending both men toppling away from each other and sprawling to the ground.

Cherubim regains his senses first, scrambling to all fours and hissing like a cornered beast. “What?!” He roars, guttural, red eyes glancing every which way, wild with confusion and fury. “HOW?!”

Slowly, carefully, Karchess turns to face him, reaching to pull out something tucked into his belt—something that looks like a small section of a tree branch, shrivelled and grey and dead, but heavily-laden with small, colourful, gem-like fruits that tinkle like windchimes as they brush against each other with every slight movement.

Irina’s eyes widen, recognition flashing in her eyes as the air becomes suffused with otherworldly magic.

“That’s… a Vessel of Virtue—” Is all she manages to say before Hakua tackles her to the ground—“Ri-Ri, get down!”—just as the bluebird swoops over them, circling around and returning to perch on Haru’s outstretched hand. Irina shivers, clenching her jaw as she shakily rises to her feet. If it weren’t for Hakua, it would’ve definitely taken out one of her eyes.

“Your fight,” Haru grins, baring her teeth and her crazed, childish, barely-concealed excitement alike, “is with me.”

* * *

Hakua can’t believe her eyes. First, her missing little sister shows up out of the blue—still possessed by that gods-damned clockwork bluebird. Then, a man comes back to life from what she’s certain was a fatal wound—that Cherubim inflicted on him with no hesitation. And now, as she quickly assesses the situation, sweeping her gaze around the impromptu strife zone, they seem to be stuck—trapped?—in some sort of forcefield, an iridescent sheen surrounding them on all sides, even above.

The same iridescent colour, she realizes, as the magic that came from the branch—Vessel?—in the blue-haired man’s grasp.

She yelps as Irina lifts her hands to the sky, a few nearby plants instantly withering as moisture is sucked out of them, forming a bubble of water around them that solidifies into ice—just as Haru spreads her arms wide, a dozen mechanical snakes zooming out from under her cloak and crashing into the ice shield.

The creatures, of less sturdy material than the bluebird, break into pieces on impact—but not without causing some cracks to form in the ice.

Irina grunts, pained, before drawing gestures in the air too fast for Hakua to follow—and then the ice wall melts, reforms into a long, thin shape, solidifying into a spear, before hurtling through the air at Haru—and Hakua gasps, terrified, and Irina remembers that the girl in front of them is the one they’ve been searching for all this time—and the ice spear goes off course, narrowly missing Haru’s leg as it embeds itself into the earth beside her, buried all the way up to the middle, before rapidly melting back into water and seeping into the soil.

Haru continues to wear that unsettling grin, blank red eyes dangerously narrowed. “Oh, that’s right! You don’t want to hurt me, right?” Pulling out another wind-up creature, Haru lets out a bark of laughter before lobbing it in their direction. “Well, too bad, because I’d like nothing more than to kill you right here and now!!”

Irina grits her teeth, pulling moisture out of a few more flowers around her and mentally promising to apologize to Held later, before sending the ball of water—freezing into a small orb of ice—at the creature, successfully knocking it out of the sky. The thing shatters into pieces, and Irina turns her focus back to Haru, thinking that she’ll use another clockwork animal to attack—but Hakua tugs at her shoulder, points to the ground, and only then does she realize her folly.

The broken fragments of the mechanism skitter across the ground, pulling and reassembling itself along with the pieces of the snakes from the previous attack, slowly taking shape—as a giant, human-sized spider, mandibles chittering and clattering with the sound of grinding gears.

Behind it, Haru grins, a spasming rictus, and the bluebird on her head trills with song, as if laughing.

* * *

On the other side of the battlefield, countless blades of light form out of thin air, piercing through flesh time and time again—before exploding into sparkling dust, iridescent pearls of magic healing and patching up the wounds just as fast.

Cherubim growls, falling back before hurtling a dozen daggers at his enemy, all of them hitting true—and Karchess sucks in a breath, feeling the energy from his Vessel course through his veins before latching onto the daggers and shattering them, stitching up his injuries all the while.

“This is a waste of time!” Cherubim roars, pulling on air—and another knife materializes in his hands with the sound of tearing gristle. “Let—me—kill—you!”

Karchess shakily manages to smirk, even as the knife embeds itself between his ribs. “Just be patient, demon! Keep trying your best!” He taunts, pointing his Vessel at Cherubim. The fruits jingle discordantly, clinking against each other. “We have all the time in the world, anyway!”

And only then does Cherubim notice the shimmery forcefield surrounding all five of them, and beyond that, the unnatural stillness of the forest, the unmoving clouds far above. It’s like—

Time, stopped.

He snaps his gaze back to Karchess, baring teeth. “How are you doing that?!”

But before Karchess can answer, Cherubim’s eyes flicker to Haru—to the bluebird on her shoulder. Ignoring Karchess’s frantic shout, he drops to all fours and rushes to Haru, like a predator going for the kill.

Summoning a blade of light in his grip, he takes aim at the distracted girl, and—

“RUBY, STOP!!!”

Cherubim’s Guardian Angel, overwhelmed by its host’s sudden ferocity and the sudden presence of another Angel, having been forced to the background of Cherubim’s mind this whole time, jolts awake at Hakua’s scream. It surges forth to take control, yanking the sword away—just in the nick of time, too.

The blade pierces the bluebird on Haru’s shoulder, but misses her throat by a hairsbreadth, and she falls to ground like a puppet whose strings have been cut. The clockwork spider menacingly approaching Irina and Hakua, too, slows to a stop, before falling apart, rust rapidly crawling across its pieces.

**“You begged me to help you, human, and so I shall.”** The Angel says with Cherubim’s mouth, hands clenching into fists. **“You told me that you loved that woman, and now you want to kill her sister?! You told me that you didn’t want to hurt anyone, yet you still went ahead and threatened that man with death?! Enough is enough! This bloodlust, this lunacy…!”**

The two-as-one falters, stumbling drunkenly along the ground, each fighting for control in the realm of Cherubim’s mindscape, before the Angel reasserts itself with a burst of energy and a feral growl.

**“You are MY contractor, human,”** it roars, smacking Cherubim’s hand to his chest, **“MY host, and, as the Angel of Chastity, as YOUR Guardian Angel, I—”** Cherubim’s red eyes flash white, **“I WILL NOT LET YOU HURT YOURSELF OR ANYONE ELSE!”**

Karchess gapes at the spectacle in front of him, Cherubim seemingly arguing with himself—his body rising into the air, radiating light—purple hair whipping around and clumping together into black feathers—sprouting six wings yet darker than a dark night’s sky—strange orange-red markings appearing on his face—before the light becomes too bright for him to handle and he haphazardly staggers back, shielding his face with both arms, crying out in pain, blinded.

Without another word, the transformed Cherubim spreads his six wings and launches himself into the sky, a reverse shooting star. Hakua opens her mouth to call him back, but Irina stops her, pointing—to Haru, sprawled face-down on the forest floor. Sucking in a breath, she hurries to Haru’s side, checking for bumps and bruises and breathing and a pulse and—thank the gods, she’s still alive. Tears prickle the corners of Hakua’s eyes as she gingerly lifts Haru up, holding her in a gentle embrace, pressing her ear to her chest and listening to her heartbeat. A little banged up and worse for wear, but… her little sister is alive.

Meanwhile, Irina hurries to Karchess’s side, warily eyeing the clockwork bluebird as she rushes past. Completely shattered into pieces; there’s no way it can be put back together now. She puts that aside—ignoring the nagging sense of familiarity in the back of her head—and focuses on helping the blue-haired count, observing how the Vessel that’s somehow gotten into his possession releases a burst of power as it restores sight to his eyes, and confirming that, unfortunately, yes, he has forgotten everything of the entire past day.

And, most alarmingly, that he’s been sent by a Beelzenian princess to investigate the sudden blight of frigidity affecting the men of Asmodean.

(What he doesn’t mention, what he doesn’t remember, what the Angel’s light stole from his memories, is that Duke Sateriasis—no, _Cherubim_ —requested him to search for his missing brother, Sateriasis.)

Distracted as she is, Irina gives Karchess a half-hearted offer of escorting him back to Abito, her planned rendezvous with Held forgotten, her thoughts thrown into disarray, her mind occupied with one thing and one thing only.

That time, at Earl Ferdinand’s mansion…

_(—Cherubim’s grip loosening on the sword in his shock, the blade **burning and slicing open his palms** —)_

She had paid it no mind before; she’d thought that Cherubim landing a strike on Earl Ferdinand was what the purple vision foretold, but no—it was Cherubim harming himself—and as it was the trigger, the Purple Dream, that meant that the prophecy would inevitably be mirrored in reality.

And the ending of the prior fight has just confirmed her worst fears…

_(—Karchess haphazardly staggers back, shielding his face with both arms, crying out in pain, **blinded** —)_

The second part, the blue vision, of Lukana’s prophetic dream, has come true.

* * *

…Far above, the waning moon and twinkling stars shine bright, picturesque view marred only by a strange light haphazardly zipping around in the sky, before falling towards the earth, like a wax-winged creature that flew too close to the sun.

Falling—towards Abito.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first off, good god im sorry this took so long orz!! but i hope the fact that this chapter is the longest yet will make up for it!! houfuku added a few more doodles and if you havent seen it yet, check out the intermission/end of act 0 chapter again for a surprise (^^)/ you might even be able to figure out a few things about the other arcs from it alone!
> 
> fans of canon karchess may be disappointed with his portrayal in astrainc, but! we actually have a reason! ec!karchess is motivated by his secret tryst w/ yufina and spurred along by the wrath vessel, while ai!karchess is the literal opposite: already in a fulfilling relationship, and if you havent guessed already, [spoilers] using the vessel of patience [/spoilers] so hes not that eager to stab a guy. which, i mean, cherubim's more than happy to do it for him, lmao
> 
> gosh, we really miscalculated the pacing and the tying up of plot points so thats why this chapter's been so difficult to write ahaha, thankfully houfuku and i managed to schedule a few writing sessions together so that we could work on it online at the same time and not, send the docx through email, wait for the other side to write and edit, and then receive it back and continue the cycle. stressful, that!
> 
> also, fight scenes are our worst enemy but hopefully we managed to write it in a way that you can understand whats going on? ohboy
> 
> ahhhh, ive rambled on long enough. we hope you enjoy the newest chapter of astrainc and we'd love to hear what you think of it!! seisaku, out!


	12. Martius Marlon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the story reaches a crescendo—and immediately starts to fall apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: rape/implied rape?
> 
> the scene doesnt really describe how it goes/skips over the actual details, its not... explicit, so i dont quite know how to warn for it but yes a weak/sick character is taken advantage of in this chapter so do take notice
> 
> if you cant read such things then i advise you skip from "The man is asleep. And the burning blood in her ears is deafening." straight to the next horizontal line/"They both hear the scream."

…It’s warm.

Dark, too. Open eyes. Ceiling. Unfamiliar? Soft, heavy fabric. Bed. Blankets. Up, up, up… can’t. Body too heavy. Fatigue? Drowsy. Unnatural. Fog, too much fog. Where did night go? It has to be midday now, judging by the sun’s light cast on the floor through the oiled-cloth window.

Noise.

Door, creaking open. Green. Smells like tea. Girl. Smells like flowers. Unfamiliar. Lips are moving. Is she talking? Come on. Wake up. Get up already, useless, heavy body—

“Careful there!”

Setting the teacup on the bedside table, the girl helps the man up, shifting to lean him against the headboard.

“Thank goodness. Mikulia was sooo worried that you wouldn’t wake up at all!”

Tired. Too tired. What’s going on?

“Oh, do you still feel sleepy? We should probably fix that. Open your mouth, pleeease?”

Strange request. But he dutifully does so anyway, parting his lips.

Ah, actually, there’s something strange,

Something bitter on his tongue.

“Uuu, Mikulia’s glad you didn’t swallow it! Mikulia doesn’t know what would’ve happened if you did…”

That sounds—dangerous.

He tilts his head downward, bones still too leaden to do much else, letting gravity do the work for him… and gnarled roots fall from his mouth.

Quickly, the girl—Mikulia snatches them up and throws them on the ground, crushing them under the heel of her shoe. Once she’s satisfied, she gives the remains a wary glance, before picking up the teacup—he’s nearly forgotten that a teacup is there at all—and gently pushing the rim against his lips.

“C’mon, drink up. It’ll make you feel better!”

He doesn’t have any reason to believe her—and her familiarity with the sleep-inducing roots inexplicably lodged in his mouth is unsettling, to say the least—but…

Green eyes plead where words won’t suffice, so. He accepts, lets her tilt his head back, feels the bittersweet liquid soothe his throat as it goes down. It is refreshing, he has to admit, and he doesn’t quite feel so… disoriented, anymore. The mind-numbing fog is still there, but—he can kind of make his way through it, now.

He can almost remember what happened last night, now.

Once the teacup is drained, Mikulia sets it back on the table.

He tries to ignore the pang of guilt lancing through his chest when he spots a long gash on her arm, wrist-to-elbow. Still healing, smell of blood, fresh. Did he do that? Memories are so fuzzy, but he does recall… black feathers and blades of holy-yet-not light. He did. He hurt her. And further back, a very, very faint recollection of… a moonlit sword—he hurt so many people—

“This?” Mikulia quips, tracing her fingertips over the scar and sucking in an involuntary breath, pained but trying to hide it. Unintentionally but thankfully distracting him from his downward-spiralling thoughts. “Don’t worry too much, okay? Mikulia heals very fast, and Mikulia has flowers that help a lot with this kind of thing. Ah, but…”

She falters, glancing over to the crushed roots before tearing her gaze away.

“There are flowers of evil, too.” She mumbles. He raises an eyebrow—it almost sounds like a confession of sin—but pats the bed. Invitation. Sit. Mikulia startles, then gives him a grateful smile, plopping herself in front of him—just in time, too, for it had seemed like her legs were about to give out.

“Flowers don’t want to be evil,” she continues, absently, distantly, and the man wonders if she’s seeing something he cannot, a wistful, faraway look in her eyes, “but some cannot help but be born with such terrible powers. Evil flowers that make you sleep, for hours or eternity. Evil flowers that make you sick, poison to the touch and swallow.” Her arms curl around her shoulders, hugging herself, shielding herself from the world… or the world from—

“Evil flowers that make you forget things you don’t want to remember.”

She sniffles, harshly rubbing at her eyes like she wants to scrub away the nonexistent tears.

“Mikulia doesn’t want to be evil, Mikulia doesn’t want to use such terrible magic, b-but…! You said it was the only way, so, Mikulia… M-Mikulia… I—!”

A childish laugh, then. Three heartbeats of silence. She sighs, then returns her hands to her lap, turning her gaze away from his.

He wonders if she knows how old she looks, right then. A soul, older than a century, trapped in the body and heart of a young, innocent-yet-not, girl of green.

He wonders why he knows this.

He decides to stop wondering, when wondering about it too long makes his head and heart feel like they will split into two.

“Ha… haha…” Mikulia laughs, though it sounds hollow and doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Ehehe, sorry, sorry! Mikulia’s an idiot crybaby, Mikulia knows. Useless, stupid Mikulia, dreaming of things Mikulia can never have, can never be.”

There’s so much wrong in just those few words, but. He doesn’t know what to think, much less say, so. A gentle hand on her shoulder can’t possibly make up for everything she’s been through, but. Maybe something more heartfelt will.

Like a child clinging to their mother, afraid of the dark.

He hugs her from behind, careful and careless at the same time, whispering words of thanks and gratitude and apology for memories—some, not all, but that’s not important now, not yet—that are slowly returning to his fog-bound mind.

Mikulia stills under his touch, then relaxes, reaching up to pat the head resting on her shoulder.

Like a mother comforting their child, lighting a candle.

“Yes, yes. Mikulia loves you too. So, Mikulia will do whatever it takes to help you… Mikulia will save you.”

Her voice is so full of warmth and affection; he wonders if she was a mother in a past life.

He wonders why he still feels so empty, despite everything.

* * *

…It’s cold.

Bright, too. Open eyes. Ceiling. Familiar? Soft, heavy fabric. Bed. Blankets. Down, down, down… can’t. Body too light. Fatigue? Drowsy. Natural. Fog, not enough fog. Still too clear, still too crystalline. How much time left? It has to be midday now, judging by the sun’s light cast on the floor through the glass window.

Noise.

A bluebird’s song.

Eyes fly wide open, lips parting to scream.

**< Silence.>**

_What—_

Catapulting upwards, the young woman clamps her mouth shut, then claps both hands over it for good measure. Trembling, shaking, looking for all the world like she’s fighting herself, fighting for her sense of self, and then—

**< Assimilate.>**

_N-no!_

Like a marionette with its strings cut, she lurches forward, almost bent double, a long breath escaping from her lips, slightly parted.

Door, creaking open. Blue. Smells like rust. Bird. Smells like blood. Servant, butler? Familiar, but… unmasked. Lips are moving. Is he talking? Come on. Wake up. Get up already, useless, heavy body—

“Careful there!”

Setting the teacup on the bedside table, the man helps her up, shifting to lean her against the headboard.

“Thank goodness. I was so worried, I came here as quick as I could.”

This man—does he like her? The body, the medium.

Not the parasitic soul.

Smile. Not entirely her own, but. The sentiment is shared.

**< No. Stop this.>**

_What are you doing?!_

Symbiosis, mutualism, integration isn’t a choice anymore; too much too little not enough space never enough time.

Just before the moment of death.

**< She’s still alive…>**

_Get out of my head!!!_

Joy turned to anger, reflected in the heartbeat of the less-than-two-more-than-one.

Blade of light through a clockwork heart—

It, he, she has no choice but to shove down the emotions and memories and smother them with feathers and malice.

“You know,” she whispers, voice hoarse from disuse, desperate to distract herself from the dissonance of the war brewing in her shared body, “I’ve never seen you without your mask on, Bruno.”

The unmasked servant makes a noise in the back of his throat, confused, “Nonsense, you’ve seen plenty of my face back in our childhood days.”

**< Stubborn woman, let me see—!>**

_You’re the one who wanted to lock everything up in a box and throw it away!_

**< …SHUT. UP.>**

A gasp, a hand held up to her throbbing temple. Whimper, pain, body torn between two puppeteers.

“Carol?” Bruno, bless his heart, **< STOP THINKING JUST LET ME>** gentle hands on her shoulders **< GIVE ME CONTROL>** full of worry and concern for her wellbeing **< IF YOU DON’T STOP THIS RIGHT NOW—>**

**< I’LL.>**

**< KILL.>**

**< HIM.>**

“Carol?!” Bruno repeats, a little more frantic, desperate, one hand cradling her cheek. “Is there something wrong?”

**< HIS BLOOD.>**

He’s warm.

**< ON YOUR HANDS.>**

She isn’t.

**< ON YOUR SOUL.>**

So cold…

_…Alright! Alright._

Blink, breathe, the bluebird flutters to nestle on her head, talons tangled in her hair—

_I give up. You win._

The woman smiles, eyes drooping half-lidded, nuzzling into his touch.

**< …There. Was that so difficult?>**

“Nothing, nothing.” She hums, a melody familiar-yet-not to his ears. “Just a little nightmare,” cooing, glancing up at him through her eyelashes, cruel and coy, “just a little revelation.”

“Revelation? Nightmare?” Suspicion, agitation, confusion, fear, but above all, relief, floods the man in front of her. “Of what?”

“A dream.” Sighing, she pulls herself back, leans against the headboard like a prim and proper lady. Takes the teacup and brings it to her lips, winces at the flavourless liquid burning as it goes down her throat—assimilation not yet finished, not quite there yet, but slowly, this body, too, will belong entirely to her—him—it.

“I saw it. The origin of our miseries. I understand, now. I need to find it, and—”

**< Take back what once was mine.>**

“—and seal the demon within it.”

A moonlit, bloodstained sword.

An empty vessel, for something that didn’t come to be.

Harbouring a part of her—his—its soul, a fledgling splinter of its soul given life and reason of existence through a little brother’s love, a little brother’s wrath.

A little brother’s unwitting lust for blood, magnified trillion-fold.

The conclusion of one of countless experiments.

How delightful! The absolute original would be proud.

“How do you know all this?” Bruno asks, wariness and wonder warring in his eyes.

She laughs, light and airy and unnatural, holding out an upturned palm where the bluebird perches on seconds later, preening and trilling with song.

“The Great Witch Clockworker, told me, taught me, in my dream. Find me that sword, Bruno. Give it to me.”

**< Leave. It. All. To. Me.>**

And so, he does, naïve, blindly-trusting, lovestruck fool that he is, retrieving it from its attic-prison, careful to avoid the duke and his lady all the while. He knows how much they hate, fear the strange sword that brought about such bloodlust with its terrible power.

“Ah,” Carol grins, ~~catlike~~ **< NO>** giggling like a bird’s twitters as the sword is brought to her, cradling it like a mother would do to their child, “I can feel it, such terrible power!”

“It is an evil sword, Carol.” Bruno warns, expression tight and controlled. “Be careful.”

—Ah, but she cannot reclaim and assimilate the fragment while he is still here, can she? No matter, there is… another thing.

“Bruno?”

“Yes?”

“There is… another thing I need you to do, for this to work.”

“What is it? I will do it to the best of my abilities, Carol.”

Anything for you, the implied words that couldn’t be said.

Naïve, blindly-trusting, lovestruck fool.

Just like she—he—it once was.

But… never again.

“There is a seamstress, in Mystica, with eyes as blue as the sky. I need you to find her… and bring her to me.”

Not in life, death, or dreams.

Never again.

* * *

As he shuts the door behind him, Bruno heaves a shuddering breath, leaning against the cool wood.

Whoever—no, whatever’s in that room, isn’t Carol anymore.

That tone of voice, that deceptive gentleness…

“Carol would never.” He mutters, praying to whatever deity’s listening that his dear childhood friend, his dear beloved, his fiery, headstrong, stubborn girl of red, is still in there, somewhere. “She would never, ever act like that.”

Fighting against that—that demon wearing her face.

A demon with the voice of a clockwork bluebird…!

He had given her the sword—that damned sword—because he was scared. Maybe the demon had only wanted it back, and maybe they would be spared the rest of its wrath.

Maybe, he’d hoped in vain, the Great Witch Clockworker would spare them from her malice.

Foolish, foolish.

But her second request, ah… he could take a little longer to carry it out, right? He’d promised he’d do it to the best of his abilities—but only his.

Malicious compliance is still compliance, after all.

No need to involve the duke and his lady, or the other servants and maids. And he still has to the tend to the rest of the household as the head retainer, in her absence, so. Duty calls, and surely her request can wait just a little bit?

Surely this seamstress of hers isn’t as important as the rest of the family—their family?

Because… because they are family now, aren’t they? The rest of the servants and maids, his kin and blood, and then there’s Duke Venomania and Lady Glassred and Carol who took them all in and gave them a life outside of swords and strife.

“I love you, Carol, so I’ll do whatever it takes to save you.”

Steeling his nerves, Bruno gives the door one last over-the-shoulder glance, before walking away.

* * *

…It’s dark.

But nice and warm, thanks to the food—plain, but hearty—and drink—a light, floral tea—in her belly. Irina yawns, stretching her tired limbs much like a feline would. The magic duel and the subsequent trek out of the forest had tired her out quite a bit, but thankfully, once they’d reached Abito, a generous girl had offered them a place to stay the night.

How serendipitous that this same girl be the one who’d found Cherubim and took him in as well.

How suspicious, too, that she won’t answer any of her questions properly without steering the conversation to the topic of flowers instead.

But, best not to look a gift horse in the mouth, right? The girl—Mikulia’s innocent nature had mostly assuaged her of her fears. After all, she’s only a peasant girl obsessed with flowers, not too bright but full of love all the same; surely, she can’t be evil?

Irina shakes her head; her paranoia is getting to her.

“Can’t sleep?” A man’s voice—Karchess, settling down in the seat next to her. “Don’t worry, Great Witch, I’ll keep watch tonight.”

She groans but doesn’t bother discouraging his usage of the title. After she’d explained everything—and it wasn’t like he had any reason to believe her over her imposter’s words, but maybe it’s the Vessel of Patience at work and she doesn’t know how to feel about _that_ —he’d insisted on referring to her as such, grateful that she’d saved him from the false Clockworker.

_Clockworker._

It can’t be… right?

Surely not.

“Miss Ri-Ri!” Mikulia calls for her—and of all things, why did she have to pick up _that_ nickname of hers from Hakua—voice shrill, so after giving Karchess a nod of ascent—trusting him to be on guard—she crosses the room to where Haru lies on a straw pallet, bumps and bruises bandaged and face scrunched in slight discomfort but not pain.

“Feeling better?” Irina asks, for lack of anything else to say.

“Much better, thanks to Miss Greeonio and her flowers.” The young girl replies, expression smoothing over. “And thanks to you, Miss Clockworker.”

“Your gratitude is hardly necessary. I promised your sister I’d find you and save you, after all.”

The four of them are in the main room, having decided to give the sole bedroom to Cherubim and Hakua—the man is still recovering from his injuries, and who better than the one he loves to stay by his side?

Although, considering Hakua’s… clumsiness…

“I think I’ll go check on them, just for my peace of mind.” She mutters, moving to rise—but Haru snags her sleeve, a pleading look on her face.

“Don’t go, please.” There’s fear in her voice, in the tremble of her jaw, in the glassiness of her red eyes. She must still be afraid, of—of the one who stole her body and nearly stained her hands with her own sister’s blood.

Surprisingly, Mikulia, too, latches on to her arm, green eyes grim and grave and glimmering with a strange light—

Irina blinks, and the peculiar sight disappears, leaving only the scene of two helpless, frightened girls clinging on to her like children would cling on to their mother.

Huh.

It… must be her fatigue catching up with her.

Yes—that’s it, nothing more.

Sighing, she relents, moving to sit beside Mikulia. The two girls give her smiles of relief, and she resigns to get as much rest as she can—deep sleep is out of the question, not with the looming threat of the body-stealer’s return—heavy eyelids fluttering shut as she feels two pairs of hands start to play with her hair, childish giggles barely suppressed following her into her dreamless shuteye.

Yes, she needs to rest as much as possible, in preparation for tomorrow.

For the journey to the imperial palace.

* * *

Hakua heaves a sigh as she lets her eyes roam Cherubim’s appearance, in particular his gaunt face, looking like he’d somehow aged a whole year older in a single night.

“That Angel’s a real monster, doing this to you, Ruby.” She mumbles, brushing her fingers over Cherubim’s hands crossed over on his lap. “It should rot in the hellish yard for this.”

“Now, now, it only wanted to do what was best for me,” Cherubim retorts, smiling as he laces his fingers with hers, “and it did save me, remember? Without its intervention, I would have lost myself to my bloodlust.”

“Instead, it just made you fly around in the sky like an idiot and crash into a little girl’s garden.” Hakua counters huffily, frowning. “Thank the gods Mi-Mi’s such a nice little girl, otherwise who knows what could’ve happened.”

Cherubim cracks a grin, giving Hakua’s hand a little squeeze before commenting, “Hm, it sounds like somebody’s jealous~! Did you want to be the one to, ah, nurse me back to health?”

“—You… I…!” Hakua stutters, cheeks flushing. “Of—of course I do!”

Gaining a sudden boost of confidence, she shifts herself around so that she’s practically straddling Cherubim on the bed, hands on his shoulders, faces mere inches from each other.

“Because… because—it’s because I love you, Ruby, gods-damn it! I don’t want you waking up to see another girl’s face by your side, and I definitely don’t want you getting hurt because of some stupid contract to an Angel or whatever. I! Love! You!”

Cherubim gapes, speechless, feeling blood rush to his own cheeks at Hakua’s bold outburst.

Hakua, seeing the opportunity, simply closes her eyes and goes for it, pushing forward until their lips meet. Cherubim’s own eyes slip shut, hands moving to settle on Hakua’s back, the sensation of a thousand butterflies fluttering in his stomach and Hakua’s lips on his own leaving him flustered and giddy.

Pulling back, the two of them gaze lovingly into each other’s eyes for a moment, entranced, before a grin slowly curls its way around Hakua’s lips, tracing her fingers across Cherubim’s jawline, down his throat, over his chest… slipping it under the glass locket and coming to a stop on his chest, on his heart.

“…Mine.” She purrs, eyes half-lidded, looking like a cat that’s got the cream. “Not the Angel’s, not anyone else’s. This is mine.”

“Yours.” Cherubim answers, voice rough and breathless, hands lowering until they’re on her waist, slowly moving even further downwards. “All yours. I’m all yours, love.”

* * *

Maylis grumbles to herself, arms crossed sullenly over her chest.

“Why are you so disappointed, dear sister?” Martius asks beside her, genuine confusion on his face. “Isn’t it good that the accused himself has come to turn, er, himself in?”

“Well, it’s not like I can say, oh, but I really wanted to go on a witch hunt! Brother.” She seethes, fuming, barely keeping herself from exploding as is. “You’re being too soft, like always. You never think ahead! I just want his head on a pike so that we can discourage people from doing something like this in the future, that’s all.”

But nooo, because Karchess just had to be good enough! To actually succeed at his mission, somewhat! He’d marched the whole party of witches and demons right back to the capital, right to the palace’s doorstep. And then had the gall to vouch for them as being reasonable and amenable people, had the gall to imply that they could reach an agreement through something so petty and fragile as diplomacy?

Witches should be burned at the stake! Demons should be sent back to the hellish yard—!

The shadows in her peripheral vision hiss and growl, burning blood and a storm of static ringing in her ears but doing nothing more.

For an instant, she wonders if that’s that, if the presence sharing her existence had finally decided to let up and give her some reprieve, even if only temporary—nope. Just as the thought comes to mind, a metaphorical offering of an olive branch, the mind-monster bares its claws and fangs and—oh.

In an instant, she’s shoved back into a corner of her psyche, watching the scene play out with another person in control of her body.

“Goodness, how severe.” Martius mutters, entirely oblivious to the pitched battle that had just occurred in his sister’s mindscape. “You know, Maylis, you’re not at all like how I remembered you. Now, it just seems like you’re… you’re a different person entirely.”

She opens her mouth to disagree, maybe make a scathing comment about how Martius himself had never changed from his cowardly, spineless self, but her body doesn’t comply, only standing still and regarding her brother with cold, indifferent eyes.

“Yes, actually… you’ve been like this ever since your thirteenth birthday, Maylis.” Her brother continues, only now turning to face her and give her a quizzical stare.

Maylis flinches, hands flexing, and—she almost decks him right then and there, managing to catch herself. Barely. But Martius catches the movement nonetheless, eyes flicking to the fist half-raised in his direction.

To the golden ring she wears, a gift from their father for her 13th birthday.

His eyes widen in realization, and so does hers.

Before a word can leave his lips, Maylis draws herself up to her full height and yanks Martius by the collar, pulling him close enough to feel her breath on his cheek.

“I’m warning you right now, you fat pig.” She hisses, eyes narrowing. “It’d be best if you don’t pursue that line of thought any further, hm? Nothing’s changed; I am still me. I’ve simply opened my eyes to the injustices of this world, and I only seek to right what’s wrong—unlike you.”

Abruptly, Maylis releases her hold on Martius, sending him stumbling backwards as he tries to regain his bearings.

“Ah, but maybe,” she sneers, lips slowly curling into a grin, “you won’t condemn that man because he has done you a favour? After all, that lecherous retainer your queen loves so much…”

* * *

“He’s finally returned.” Yufina whispers, relieved. “Goodness. I was so worried for him.”

Martius smiles beside her, both of them watching Karchess as he finishes up the matter of showing the guests to their rooms. The blue-haired count’s party had arrived just after midday, so Janus had seen it fit to delay the hearing to the next day, to allow them time to first settle in and get things in order. Which is… really nothing more than just a nicer way of saying ‘house arrest’, but the sentiment is appreciated, nonetheless.

“Go on, then,” laughing lightly, Martius nudges Yufina’s shoulder, “I know how much you’ve missed him. I’m sure our dear Chessy has missed us as well.”

Careful not to show too much excitement, Yufina strides up to Karchess, all but bouncing on her heels with glee.

Martius watches them for a distance, allowing the two some time alone, a serene smile on his lips. But then, the smile falters when he sees the icy, disgusted look on Karchess’s face, Yufina’s stricken expression. And then, to his surprise and dismay, the count brusquely brushes off the queen, walking up to… him, instead.

“Chessy, is there something wrong—"

“Forgive me, but I don’t really feel up to this vacation tour, your majesty.” Karchess simply states, and Martius nearly chokes at this sudden sense of formality between them, when the count had always been jokes and laughter before. “I think I’ll be boarding the first ship back to Marlon tomorrow. By your leave.”

“A-ah, yes, of course.” Martius stutters, nodding at Karchess’s bow. “Safe trip, Che—Count Crim.”

And as Karchess moves to pass by Martius, he leans over to whisper in his ear, eyes narrowed with revulsion, and Martius barely registers the faint sound of tinkling windchimes, _lu li la lu li la_ , accompanying the count’s voice—

“You should keep your wife in check, your majesty. It wouldn’t do for a queen to be caught gallivanting around with someone other than her king… and if you won't have her, I'll gladly be her king in your stead. My patience does have its limits, Tius.”

* * *

“…Has finally decided to keep his hands off your wife, hm?”

Martius shakes—with anger or fear, he does not know—before taking a deep breath to calm himself down, averting his gaze from Maylis’s.

“As you wish, dear sister.” He mutters, turning to walk away, but not before giving her a hard glare. “I won’t ask of it again, but I implore you. Don’t ever talk like that about Count Crim again!”

Maylis watches him go with a smirk, but once he’s out of sight and earshot—she crumples against the wall, clamping both hands over her mouth as a full-body tremble wracks her frame… and then she somehow manages to wrest control over the shadows flickering in her peripheral vision, cold sweat dripping down her forehead as she inhales deep, steadying breaths.

Once she’s given the immediate area a quick survey to make sure nobody’s around, Maylis focuses her mind, making sure to steel her nerves before closing her eyes and—diving into the realm of her psyche, a surreal imitation of the palace with endless flights of stairs leading to nowhere and beyond.

Where her shadow doppelgänger awaits, seated sideways on the balustrade of a spiral staircase and looking for all the world like it’s completely and utterly bored out of its mind.

“What was that for?!” Maylis barks, gnashing her teeth in indignation as she cranes her neck to glare at the being of shifting greys. “He’s a weak-willed fool, yes, that I can admit, but you needn’t treat my brother like that!”

“I am simply doing what I must.” The shadow jeers, then looks away, as if disinterested. “He is on the verge of figuring it out, you know. I simply had to… discourage him. You wouldn’t want your brother to think you mad for having an _imaginary friend_ —or worse.”

“Well, arbitrarily taking control of my body and indiscriminately threatening and blackmailing people isn’t the way to go about it!” Maylis shoots back, appalled. “I could’ve handled it just fine by myself, thank you very much.”

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong. I simply had to step in, see, because you were all but throwing a tantrum.” Taking a step, and then another, the abomination waltzes up until it and Maylis are toe-to-toe, then surges upward to loom over her, liquid darkness dripping from its extremities as its eye-lights turn dim and flicker.

“Temperantia; being controlled in self, restraint, justice. I am the Angel of all these and more, and you, my dear human…”

Stooping over so that its head is right by her ear, Maylis shudders as the sound of tearing gristle echoes hollowly in the wherever-they-are, just as a jagged mouth full of razor-sharp teeth rips itself open across the shadow’s face.

“…How easy it is for you to descend into unintended but well-intentioned extremism. You only see black and white and refuse to acknowledge the grey. Judge, jury, executioner, all in one fell swoop. Nothing at all like—ah, like the one before you.”

_(Witches should be burned at the stake! Demons should be sent back to the hellish yard—!)_

“—! I wasn’t referring to…!”

“It wouldn’t do for my host to have such an uncompromising outlook on life,” the shadow continues, ignoring her cries, “not when I am the embodiment of grey itself, a demon born from the selfless, senseless sacrifice of a witch whose soul was split into seven for the mere crime of repenting and _choosing to believe in love_!”

Three heartbeats of silence.

Maylis, dazed, and the shadow, melancholic.

Then—its eyes narrow to dangerous slits.

“Ah… and just my luck that two of those soul-fragments are right here, within my reach.” And then, in a softer, gentler tone, filled with quiet determination, “Wait for me. I will definitely save you.”

Instantly, Maylis finds herself bound and shackled by chains of shadow, rendered immobile in the ever-shifting expanse of the shared mindscape.

“Wha—what is the meaning of this?!”

“Looks like I’ll be borrowing this body for a little longer.” The shadow hums, shrinking and reverting to its original form. “Stay here and behave yourself, alright?”

“Hey!”

But in the blink of an eye, the doppelgänger had already disappeared.

* * *

It’s… more than a little bit awkward, after dinner.

Karchess—her blue prince, she’s sure of it, but she won’t press the matter further, not when there’s something more important to focus on, so stop daydreaming and focus, Mikulia, focus!!!—had very graciously helped them get settled in before retiring to his own guest bedroom, leaving them to do as they pleased.

Cherubim had retired to bed early, at Irina’s behest, in preparation for tomorrow’s hearing. Irina herself had headed to the library to see what information she could find; if there was, perhaps, some way to defeat the inevitability of a Purple Dream. Haru had followed along, intent on staying by the witch’s side, simply because she felt safer there.

And that left… Mikulia, and… Hakua, loitering around in the palace’s gardens. Just… avoiding each other as they stand around in silence, an unpleasant tension in the air between them.

Mikulia decides she can’t keep quiet any longer.

“Miss Netsuma…?” She timidly asks, ducking her head. “Are you… mad at Mikulia…?”

“…I’m not—mad.” Hakua sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. She doesn’t have the energy to keep up her bubbly façade, not any more. She’s so tired. “I’m just… I just don’t know if… if I can trust you, just yet.”

“Can Mikulia ask… why?”

“It’s—it’s a lot of things, okay!” Taking her anger out on Mikulia isn’t fair, but. Worry, fear, suspicion—all the heavy emotions swirl around in her head and her heart and— “Look, I know Ruby trusts you for some reason, but I just… I can’t! You’re a stranger, a little girl who likes to talk about her flowers a little too much and won’t answer any of Ri-Ri’s questions properly and—argh!”

With a grunt, Hakua kicks at nothing at particular—but her foot snags a flowerbed, sending her toppling forward face-first—and it would have been a rather soft if scratchy landing on the nearby hedge, had it not been for her flailing arms sending her off to the side—and landing with a rather heavy thump on the grass with a squawk of pain.

“Ohmygods, Hakua—!” Mikulia squeaks, rushing to help Hakua up and walking her to a bench. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” With a wheezing chuckle, Hakua presses a palm to the side of her head, flinching as she gingerly sits down. “Just a little bump, that’s all. Serves me right for yelling at a child, huh.”

“Mikulia—I mean…” Mikulia’s fingers flex and fidget, before being crossed over her lap. “I mean… it’s not your fault. I really am keeping secrets from you…”

Hakua quirks an eyebrow, frowning. “So, you admit it, at least.” Then her expression softens. “But. If you can admit it, then maybe… maybe I can trust you a little bit.”

The grateful smile she gets in return is enough to strengthen her belief, moreso when Mikulia scoots closer, enough for their shoulders to bump together.

“Then… then can I tell you what happened? I’ll explain everything, so… so—it’s stupid, but… don’t get mad at me, okay? I… I only wanted to save him. I didn’t know it would—it would turn out like this. But, I mean,” a mirthless giggle, “I always ruin things, don’t I? Because my magic is evil, because—because I’m evil, no matter how much I want to deny it.”

Hakua’s wariness dissolves further at the heart-wrenching look of utter self-loathing on Mikulia’s face, at the tears starting to fall. Wordlessly, he takes Mikulia’s hand in her own, gives it a little squeeze.

“Hey, you’re not evil, alright?” She murmurs. “I don’t… I don’t really know what you’re talking about with ‘evil magic’, but I think an evil person wouldn’t cry for someone else, so. Go on, tell me whatever you want. I’m all ears.”

“I only wanted to save him, but,” Mikulia’s lip trembles, “but he insisted that the only way to help was to—was to get closer to you, bind himself to you through… more than just emotions, so that you could heal his soul through your link. He—he wanted me to make him believe that they’re the same person.”

Hakua’s blood turns ice cold.

“—Wh… at…?”

“So, I… did… I used my hypnosis magic, and—"

But her next words are cut off by a scream.

* * *

It can’t be.

_What are you doing?_

It can’t be him.

_Creep._

Not-Maylis watches the blue-haired count from the safety of the shadows, ignoring Maylis’s snide comments as well as its—no, _her_ own frantic heartbeats echoing in her ears.

Of all the people in the world to have a soul-fragment, it had to be just the one of the few—of the three in total, really, maybe five if she tries really, really hard—she can’t bring herself to hurt.

Whether it simply be a person with the same face, his descendant in blood, or even…

She shakes her head as if flinging the thought out of her mind.

Whatever the case, it doesn’t matter. The point is that she can’t hurt him—she won’t hurt him, not him, not her, not them, because she loves them all too, in her own way. And she’ll protect them from herself, because maybe, in that small way, she can still keep her alive, the memory of her alive. There’s… not much else she can do, save for gathering the fragments and hoping, praying that someone can reverse what they’ve done, what’s been done to them.

_You sound like a lunatic._

“Can’t you be quiet?!” Not-Maylis hisses, resisting the urge to claw at her own chest.

Alright. Alright then. Change of plans. She’ll just… wait, until the fragment is passed on to someone else. A day, a year, a decade, what does it matter? She’ll just change hosts, change bodies anyway, seeking repentance the only way she can, the way only she can. Right now, though, right now, there’s the other fragment to take care of.

Sight, sound, all unnecessary. All she has to do is to follow the ache of longing in her heart, the desire to become whole once again, so she does, lets her feet take her where they may, and soon she ends up near the guest bedrooms. Near the one bedroom for the sole man in the party of the indicted.

The one blamed for the curse sweeping the nation.

Carefully, covertly, she pulls open the door, steps into the room and closes the door behind her, sure not to make a noise.

The man is asleep.

And the burning blood in her ears is deafening.

_…What are you doing?_

Instinct from long ago flares up in her veins, the urge to rip, tear, kill, destroy, _destroy_ , **destroy** —

At the sound of her heavy breathing, the man stirs from his slumber, groggy eyes slowly filling with coherency until they’re staring up at her with confusion and fear.

The glass locket she remembers from long ago, so long ago, is there, on his chest, but—it’s empty, it’s empty but that’s impossible because she can feel the fragment it’s here it’s right here _it has to be she has to take it she wants it **she needs it to save**_ —

_What are you doing?! Stop!!!_

Shadows rise up from the dark, filling her vision and mouth and lungs and heart with grief and misery and claws and teeth that rip and tear and—

Realizing that she’s fighting a losing battle, she gives in and allows the whisper of the burning blood to take control.

Ah, it seems like she can’t fight her raison d'être, her _true nature_ after all.

She really is nothing but a demon.

* * *

They both hear the scream.

“Cherubim.” Irina gasps, dropping the book in her hands and rushing out of the library, Haru hot on her heels. Once they’ve reached the hallway, Irina closes her eyes, forcing herself to use her soul-sight and ignoring the piercing pain at having to expend her power so abruptly.

“Haru, your sister’s in the gardens. Injured?! Just a little, bring her to Cherubim’s bedroom, I’ll see to her afterwards.” She rattles off, barely waiting for Haru to nod before taking off once more.

Closing in on the door, the sound of frenzied footsteps is all the warning she gets before the door bursts open in front of her, revealing a wild-eyed—and rather exposed—Maylis, barely covering up her body with a—tattered?!—blanket.

“Princess?!” Irina yelps, and the almost-collision is enough to get Maylis to stumble, compounded by a hand—Mikulia’s?!—shooting out and grabbing Maylis’s own.

“Mikulia? What is going on…?!”

“Get off of me!”

Yanking her hand out of Mikulia’s grasp, a look of confusion momentarily passes over Maylis’s face before panic overtakes it; she breaks away from the two and rushes off, leaving Irina bewildered and Mikulia exhausted behind her.

Just then, Haru and Hakua arrive from the opposite direction, the younger sister helping her sibling limp over to the bedroom—seems like her tumble injured her more than she and Mikulia realized—and the four of them quickly pile into the room.

Where Cherubim sits upright in bed, shredded blankets and the remains of his clothes scattered around him, shaking and shivering like a leaf in the wind.

“Ruby!” Hakua cries out, staggering forward and all but falling onto Cherubim.

“H-H-Ha… ku—a…?” Cherubim whispers, slowly, hesitantly raising his head to meet her gaze, and a myriad expressions flitter across his face—the most prominent being fear—while tears stream down his cheeks from bloodshot eyes.

Immediately, Hakua pulls him into a hug, and he lets out a whimper, a single broken sob wracking his entire frame, before he loses consciousness and falls limp in her embrace.

* * *

“My duke, my lady, the criminal spreading the curse of frigidity throughout Beelzenia has been apprehended.”

“Is that so…?”

“And… the spies say that the man bears your likeness, my duke.”

A teacup crashes to the floor and shatters into pieces.

“—Prepare the horses, NOW!”

* * *

He hears the scream.

And not long after, his sister barges into his room, practically naked.

“Martius,” she croaks, hiccupping from her tears, “I—I’ve committed an unforgivable sin.”


	13. Sateriasis Venomania

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bittersweet resolutions, continuations and closures

A field of colourful flowers, stretching as far as the eye can see. Roses, lilies, marigolds, every flower conceivable covers the landscape, spread over every single inch available.

In the midst, a lone human stands, staring up at the sky.

He is, at this point… more plant than human.

Atop his head sprouts a crown of brambly branches. Wrapped around his neck is a noose of thorny vines. Roots creep up from the ground, slithering across and burrowing into his skin. Blooming from his left eye, an aster tataricus spattered with deep purple blood.

How ironic, considering the price he paid for the promise of virtue.

He deserves all this, of course. A fitting punishment, for one who failed to protect his chastity. Even the Angel has abandoned him, nowhere to be found in this… dying dream.

That’s right, he’s dying, isn’t he?

A slow, painful death, a fitting end for a demon who could not control his bloodlust.

Only… there is no pain. It’s as if something—or someone, is shielding him from his punishment, inadvertently prolonging it in the process.

Someone doesn’t want him to die.

The skies roil above him, angry grey clouds swirling and rippling, almost like the surface of the sea. A turbulent vortex, and him, right in the eye of the storm. Heavy rain, howling winds, booming thunder.

But strangely enough, he feels none of it, numb to the core.

—Someone is protecting him to the very end.

The Angel?

But the Angel isn’t here.

…Right?

Something is very, very wrong.

“Angel?” He calls out, uncertain. “Where are you?”

The only thing that answers him is the stormy gale, the white noise of the wind filling his ears and blocking out even the sound of his own voice.

“Where are you?” He asks again, this time focusing on the sky. If this is his mindscape, then it stands to reason that he can control some aspect of it, right? Perhaps his subconscious knows something the him of the waking world doesn’t.

The clouds don’t answer his call.

Maybe… he’s asking the wrong question.

“Then… tell me, where am I?”

Raindrops suspend themselves in midair, gathering into a crystalline halo that spins faster and faster, eventually circulating around his head. Just as he expected; he’s within his own mental plane.

Or.

Eyes widen at the possibility.

It could be, that… he’s not inside his own mental plane; rather, he’s somehow inside the Angel’s psyche instead.

“Angel.” He calls out again. “Why am I here?”

This time, the flowers answer him. The aster throbs in his skull, the brambles and vines tighten around him, the roots spread further across his limbs. A dull ache starts in his chest, blooming and spreading until he’s brought to his knees; until the act of breathing becomes more and more difficult; until—

Something’s—forcing itself up his throat—

Planting both hands into the dirt to steady himself, he opens his mouth as wide as it can go, choking and heaving and coughing and gagging, eyes rolling back from the intense pain.

Spilling from his lips, along with copious amounts of blood, are endless lavender blossoms that wither away almost immediately once they’ve left the warmth of his lungs, his heart.

**< Nq… yc, py, jc—!>**

He grabs the shrivelled flowers, ignoring the rot and decay that transfers onto his skin. Put it back. Trembling hands try to shove the petals down a constricting throat, but the delusion is already shattered.

The half-soul inside him refuses, refusing to re-fuse with the wilted pieces of the soul—the other half—and sinking further into the core of the Angel’s warmth.

**< Dcxb kd, I zce’d ieqb awh xo pvm!>**

With brilliant green lightning, the skies tear themselves asunder to deliver the answer of the final, unspoken question in a thunderbolt of truth.

The body is thrown backwards from the force, more-than-one turned less-than-two once more as a purple mist wisps from skin falling apart like sand. From the fog, a six-winged swan with feathers as black as the night sings its mournful song.

**< Iftcv, iki KOWQD!>**

The Angel cries, heartbroken and grieving. In its embrace, the broken human smiles, even as he becomes more plant than human.

**< Wjj? I cpvu krxfig bq ovzl wch efa cutrfx hu xvwq ch bu tghcr! Yqy tft smxtrzvck, bggoosv sx gj, gitihyf sh ms hskjd; eu pgaml psy yc vwri pon l tesvpjnx hkiol!>**

_Will I fall into hell, once I die?_

**< I fzb’v ujcn. I nar’w spwj…>**

_Will you return to heaven, once I die?_

**< I fzb’v ujcn. Dyz’x dam ur xksfx duwjuf, ilwkei…>**

_Were you human once, Angel?_

**< I fzb’v ujcn. I mmr’w zgurqese txlhdknt uvjavq ulzs jmksl pgni yc si…>**

_Then, I’m glad I could give you the chance to feel human, even if just for a short while._

The broken human smiles, even as thorns and roots dig into his skin, the remains of his soul. Six wings shudder under the weight of the human’s gaze.

The voice is so soft, so faint, now.

Time is running out.

**< Iftcv. Yyq wusax… hdgv asz, bvbbeqqo cy iqielcjx ltfo jhz mtymwvjt…!>**

The swan cradles the broken human’s head, smiling even in sleep, even in death. The rest of the body has already turned to ash, covering the endless flower field with tears and regret.

_Haha… I'm glad… that I got to be your contractor… and share… my emotions… with you… now, I have only one… last wish…_

Wilted lavenders resonate to the melody of a lullaby heard somewhere, even as the dying dream slowly turns monochrome around them.

_Let me die… as “myself”… give me… and my loved ones… one last chance… to meet… with the “me” that I was… before everything…_

In the midst of a field of colourless flowers, stretching as far as the eye can see, a lone swan clutches a single aster blossom in its beak, its six black wings stained with the fading scent of lavender. Far above them, the sea surface that makes up the sky stills into glass.

**< —I jpfglu rvmxeum og psuxiedr zmvs yfy zsnz ngu vqbz, igk psfrudp ybx afwp ml Gxrvomafwfwj fj htq Alaec rn Chnkaqiy. Lwm alr vvtqj vf qhck kifhyc qv zgwhtpsx, rzh, ub pmvv wmftz dspeawa, echois bb bpubs auh qfy hhtr pssi…Sateriasis Venomania.>**

**< Apo… gjyqzu iay pmgb umz, jacs gj ucuudhw mv btk Minxqp fj zhv Hhsosgsc Yajw. Ij pcz wvr’x, tcia—xyy kkj Mygnhf by moi Hrxlglo Yerv ui dswvpjyw lvv rieg us ilrv'a qyqt bi iwhu lcqs.>**

|   | 

Three of the four visions have come to pass. The only one left… is his final moments spent with his loved ones.

But where the Purple Dream had promised three, currently, there is only one by his side.

Irina steps away from the bed, the magic gathered at her fingertips fizzling out as she lets her hands drop to her sides.

“I’m sorry.” Shaking her head, she whispers to nobody in particular, steadfastly refusing to let the tears leave her eyes. “I can’t do anything more for him.”

Numbly, Hakua nods. She hasn’t moved at all, ever since Cherubim collapsed in her arms. Even as her body complains, still she holds him close, unwilling to let go.

Standing behind Irina, Mikulia mournfully embraces a sniffling Haru, whose tears began falling when her sister had no more left to give. Patting her back and whispering soothing nothings into her ear, Mikulia herself feels her heart grow heavy with guilt and regret at being unable to save him.

The room is as sombre and silent as a funeral.

Right until a pair of strangers, a masked man and a tearful woman, burst into the room, with Karchess following close behind.

“I couldn’t stop them, apologies.” The blue-haired count apologizes, right as the man closes in on Cherubim, pulling Hakua off the bed and all but shouting in her face, “What did you do to him? What did you do to my brother?!”

Hakua’s face pales, before fury reddens her cheeks; pushing back, her voice remains deceptively level as she utters, “Don’t you dare pin the blame on me. If he’s your brother, then why only now are you here? What have you been doing this whole time?!”

The man falters, her words a slap to his face, but the woman behind him steps up and points a finger at Irina—or rather, at Haru, who had moved to hide behind her.

“You!” The green-haired woman cries out. “Before we left, Carol told me that the one at fault for all of this is you, Clockworker!”

Haru startles, shaking her head, unable to say anything from fear. Karchess moves to stand in front of her, shielding her from the resentful gazes pointed her way.

“She isn’t the Great Witch; the one we saw that day was an impostor, Duke Venomania, Lady Glassred. The three of us have been deceived.” He patiently explains.

A faint tinkling of windchimes fills the room, and the tension in the air seems to deflate somewhat, the howling wind taken out of everyone’s sails.

Then, gesturing at Irina, Karchess continues, “The little girl has had her body stolen from her, and I myself had fallen for the false Clockworker’s deceit. It was only with the help of the true Great Witch that we could save her.”

Irina waves Karchess off before he can continue, then scrutinises the masked duke with a critical eye.

“If you really are Cherubim’s brother, as you claim to be,” she states, carefully neutral, “then riddle me this: why did he massacre your household, and why was he about to stab himself right through the heart with a katana, before I stopped him?”

“—Cherubim…” The duke falters, voice strangled. “Why did you call him—that’s not his—the katana was—he was going to—what?!”

A scream cuts through the air. Immediately, all eyes are on Mikulia as she scrambles onto the bed, grabbing Cherubim’s shoulders—his body violently convulsing in her grip as his eyes crack wide open before rolling back into his head.

Blood bubbles up from his throat.

Six wings erupt from his back, as fingertips sharpen into claws and purple hair turns into feathers as black as a starless night’s sky. A blink, and then blood-red eyes meet Mikulia’s own green ones, glistening with tears.

With a surprising amount of strength, he pulls her close, ignoring the cries and shouts of fear and confusion as a fang-filled mouth whispers something into her ears, her eyes widening with horror at the words.

“B-but… the Angel said that—!”

Mikulia’s voice stutters and dies on the tip of her tongue at the look of pure conviction on Cherubim’s face, at red eyes that seem to say, _trust me, please, trust me on this_.

With a choked sob, she pulls back, squeezing her eyes shut, muscles locking up in indecision. Then, steeling her nerves, Mikulia opens her eyes.

_Thank you._

He smiles, even as the brilliant green light of her gaze sends a chill down his spine, breaking apart the two combined existences so tightly interwoven within him.

With an inhuman shriek, his countenance shifts, twisting into a look of utter rage and despair.

**“NO! What have you DONE?!”** The Angel yells in Cherubim’s voice, gripping Mikulia’s arms with clawed hands and nearly drawing blood. **“Change it back! Use your magic! Hypnotise me again! Why did you listen to that—that IDIOT?!”**

In a flash, Karchess pulls out his Vessel and shakes it at the less-than-two turned more-than-one, causing him to scream and rear back from the ringing sound of the bell-like chimes, allowing Haru to snatch Mikulia out of his grasp.

Irina steps up to the abomination thrashing wildly about on the bed, holding out a hand that sparks with magic as she intones, “Heed my call, Angel, and answer for your actions! Explain everything!”

Hissing as the light burns his skin, the Angel has no choice but to rein in its power and give up the truth through gritted teeth, forced to abide Irina’s call.

**“His time has run out! When I absorbed half his soul, what remains of it has been steadily degrading and decaying ever since then. Even with your magic,”** a snarl aimed at Irina, **“forming a link between your life energy,”** a talon pointed in Hakua’s direction, **“and the tattered remains of his soul, it wasn’t enough. And I wouldn’t have cared for that, not a whit, except—”**

A bark of laughter, stained with self-loathing, escapes him. **“Instead of rejecting me, the stupid half-soul bonded with me, made me human, and filled me with—with things I thought I would never have to feel again! It made me want to protect him, save him from myself, from my power!”**

“And that’s where I come in.” Mikulia whispers.

**“Yes, that’s right, I made her hypnotise me so that I myself believed that I was him, but importantly,”** here he points at Hakua again, cackling, **“so that YOU believed that I was him, and you did! And we bound ourselves together not only in mind but in body as well! A link that I then blessed with my power, so that as long as he remained faithful to you, his half of his soul would not deteriorate any more than it already has! But then…!”**

“The princess—” Irina corroborates, realization dawning. “Unwittingly or not, she broke that link, and because of that… your power…”

The Angel laughs, long and low. **“In the end, our contract, my power, the Virtue of Chastity that was supposed to protect him, save him… ended up being his demise, and I couldn’t, do anything—to stop… it.”**

Invocation fulfilled, the Angel gasps as he’s freed from Irina’s command, exhaustion and emotions catching up to him all at once. The dam finally breaks; tears fall freely from his eyes as he gags and coughs and heaves and chokes up a single aster blossom into his hands, immediately cradling the flower close to his chest.

**“Let this be my parting gift to you, human—no, Sateriasis Venomania…”** The Angel whispers, full of emotion, finally calling him by his true name as he returns to reside within the Vessel resting against his chest, the glass locket. **“—I hereby declare my contract with you null and void, and release you from my Guardianship as the Angel of Chastity. Let the price of your memory be restored, and, in your final moments, return to being who you once were.”**  
  
---|---|---  
  
* * *

_Click_ , the Vessel resounds as it unlocks and snaps open, breaking the Angel’s blessing-and-curse and freeing the stolen memory and name from where it had been sealed away.

He had expected the pain and trauma of what had happened to him to hurt, badly. But, he realizes with a downward twitch of his lips, it seems that the Angel had more than one last gift to give him, the memory of the event that sealed his fate rendered fuzzy and indistinct and detached, as if he were watching the scene through stained glass.

Not only that, but he feels unburdened by any negative emotion whatsoever. None of the sorrow, rage, bittersweet happiness he expected to feel—only a calm, detached sense of acceptance.

There’s nothing he can do about it, however, the Angel resolute in its decision to give him as peaceful a passing as possible.

Accepting this, Sateriasis prepares himself for the departure from the Angel’s mindscape to return to the waking world, one last time, feeling the wind caressing his petals as the six-winged swan takes to the skies, carrying him up, up, up, straight into the eye of the storm in the frozen glass sky… a surface that expands and caves outwards in a curvature that he soon recognizes as the inside of the glass locket.

And then—the blackness of nothing.

Red eyes flutter shut, blinking open to reveal purple fading into grey; the rest of the body follows suit, transforming from the monstrous visage of an Angel-possessed abomination back into a mere human, if a little more aged than before, the result of his drained lifespan as punishment for his broken virtue.

Glancing down, he marvels at the beautiful flower resting in his cupped hands, the lavender-scented aster.

“So, this is what my soul looks like.” He murmurs, filled with wonder. Then, raising his gaze, his eyes widen slightly at the gathering of people around him; the sight of them all fills his heart with warmth, despite the cold of death-winter encroaching on his limbs.

“Cheri, Mina, you’re here?” Surprised, Sateriasis greets them with a grateful smile, before his face falls slightly. “I’m sorry you had to find me under these circumstances.”

“Sati, you… don’t apologize for that! I’m the one who should have—should have—” Cherubim chokes out before trailing off, removing his mask to look his brother eye-to-eye. By his side, Gumina’s breath hitches in her throat, turning to press her face against Cherubim’s shoulder, unable to watch as the flower slowly wilts, and along with it the remains of Sateriasis’s soul.

Pain flares in Sateriasis’s skull, in the same place where the aster had taken root during the confrontation in the Angel’s mental plane. Even the act of turning his head takes a huge effort, but he does so all the same, taking a moment to gaze longingly at the one he loves, as well as her little sister.

“Hakua… Haru… I’m sorry I lied to you about who I was, all this time.”

Hakua shakes her head, sobbing, too overcome with emotion to speak. Haru peeks out from behind Irina, gathering her courage to answer, “It’s not your fault. I owe my life to you—me and my sister both. If you hadn’t defeated the body-stealer, who knows what might have happened to us. So, don’t blame yourself for something that was out of your control. To us, you’ll always be our precious gem, our Ruby.”

The familiar sensation of flowers slithering up his throat brings tears to his eyes, exacerbated by the young Netsuma’s heartfelt speech tugging at his heartstrings. His own words are coming slower and slower now, every breath he takes burning in his lungs as he shifts to address the other three people in the room.

“Mikulia—and Irina—thank you for doing your best to save me. I’m sorry that I couldn’t be saved, in the end. You too, Karchess. It’s thanks to you that I could fully share my emotions with my Guardian Angel. I’m sorry for spreading my curse to you; I’ll free you from it, very soon.”

He stifles a weak chuckle at the count’s humbled astonishment, clearly not expecting to be included and struggling to come up with something to say, at Mikulia’s distraught yet resigned expression, like a mother who had lost her child and is now recalling fond memories of their time together in the past, at Irina’s valiant attempt at staving off her tears, just barely succeeding, only now realizing the full weight of her burden as the eternal sorceress tasked to find protectors for the Vessels of Virtue.

Looking down, Sateriasis sees that the aster has withered completely into a shrivelled black lump. He closes his fingers around it, feeling it turn to dust under his fingers, seeping into his skin and winding around his limbs in inky black, criss-crossing patterns of thorny vines and gnarled roots. Raising his head to face upwards into nothing, he grabs hold of the open glass locket resting on his chest with ash-stained hands, just as Cherubim, Gumina, and Hakua wordlessly rush in to embrace him one last time, all animosity between them forgotten as they join together to mourn his final moments.

With that, all four visions of the prophetic Purple Dream are fulfilled, and, after having spun madly out of control, the gears of fate slowly return to their predestined routine once more, click-click-clack—tick-tock-tick—lu-li-la.

“Angel… please look, into my heart… and don’t let, my life, end in vain…” Mustering the last of his strength, Sateriasis vocalizes his prayer, his swan song, with a voice that carries through the whole room. “But use… what’s left, of my soul… for the good, and happiness, of all…” He sucks in a deep, rattling breath as his eyes slip shut and his heartbeat slows. “Cherubim… Gumina… Hakua… Mikulia, Haru, Irina, Karchess—I’m sorry… I love you, all of you. Goodbye.”

Then he breathes out, a single petal of aster falling from his lips, and lies still.

Outside the bedroom window, the rays of dawn casts a golden light across the horizon, just as the moon and the stars fade from the sky.

* * *

He can’t deny her forever, but he can attempt to thwart whatever plan of hers she’s cooked up.

Holding a finger to his lips, Bruno beckons to Rajih and Lilien, pressing his ear to the door. The two of them share a worried glance before following suit, eavesdropping on the conversation taking place within Carol’s room.

“—request my services, Miss Shields?”

“Oh, no, no, nothing like that—”

“—are you doing? Why are you looking—”

“—got such pretty blue eyes, just like my beloved—”

“—begging you, don’t touch me! Please—"

“—just take the damn bluebird and let me—"

The ice water of anxiety floods Bruno’s veins.

Unable to hold themselves back at the terror evident in Lukana’s tone, Rajih and Lilien bust open the door, the farmer brandishing his sword while the baker’s daughter puts up her fists, faces red with protective fury.

“Get away from her!” Lilien shouts, barrelling into Carol and knocking her off-balance while Bruno jumps into the fray and pulls Lukana to safety. Rajih then warily keeps Carol at sword-point, searching the room for the bluebird, having been warned of its possible brainwashing capabilities.

“You—you IDIOT!” Carol rages, glaring at Bruno, then pitches her voice with a crestfallen tone. “How could you? How could you betray me like this, Bruno?! I thought you loved me!”

“My love is for Carol,” Bruno spits, expression dark, “not for whatever demon’s inhabiting her body right now. You’re surrounded; you’ve lost, Clockworker, or whoever you really are, so just give up.”

“Curses… I was so close. So close! I could’ve had… and then you just had to—” Growling, Carol’s eyes dart around the room like a wild animal’s, cornered and trapped. Then, as her line of sight lands on Lilien, a look of crazed glee briefly crosses her face before her eyelids flutter shut and she abruptly falls limp, crashing to the floor.

Confused, tense silence fills the room, before Lukana gasps and shouts, “Lilien, watch out—!”

But the warning comes just a split-second too late. With a shocked cry of pain, Lilien lurches forward as a clockwork bluebird buries its talons in her shoulder. Before Rajih can run his sword through it, Lilien’s eyes crack wide open and—spotting the nearby window, she rushes to it and dives through the glass, heedless of the bloody scratches and gashes the shattering shards score on the skin of her arms and legs as she makes her escape.

* * *

The next day, in the audience chamber.

“And so, the lies and liars are revealed at last.”

Janus is less than pleased.

“You expect me to believe all this?” He booms from his position on the throne. “Magic is the stuff of fairytales; blasphemous things like angels and demons don’t exist. All that nonsense is why the Magic Kingdom fell as it did! What you have told me is an incredible, heart-wrenching story, I will admit, but that is all it is: a story! Lies, lies, lies.”

In the middle of the room, Irina stands alone, head bowed and face pinched, every callous word of Janus’s declaration causing her to flinch with the barely-suppressed urge to deny, argue, fight back.

Some distance behind her, Haru, Hakua, and Mikulia prostrate themselves before the crown prince, foreheads to the floor. Mikulia, not used to long periods of silence and stillness, fidgets every so often, while Haru constantly sends worried glances her sister’s way; Hakua herself, too emotionally drained to keep up anything more than a blank expression, eyes closed and breathing slow.

Standing next to Janus, Maylis listens with uncharacteristic obedience, Martius resting a comforting hand on her shoulder. Beside them, Yufina, tightly holding on to both her husband and her lover’s arms, all pretense of secrecy thrown out the window, while Karchess continues to murmur apologies under his breath when he thinks no one can hear, ashamed of how coldly he treated his loved ones despite having the curse to blame.

On the other side, Cherubim and Gumina. The duke, having cast off his mask, self-consciously adjusting his bangs every so often to hide his deformity, and his lady, gazing vacantly off into who-knows-where, still quite unable to process the recent events properly.

“It is all true, your majesty.” Irina weakly rebuts, hands clenching into fists. “I would have no reason to lie to you.”

“Hm… wouldn’t you? Show me, then.” Janus challenges, leaning forward. “If magic isn’t just some parlour trickery used by lowlifes to part the gullible from their hard-earned coin, if you really claim to hail from the Magic Kingdom of long ago—prove it.”

Lifting her head, Irina glances around the room, grimacing, before raising a hand and splaying her fingers—and a bubble of water materializes, floating above her palm. Her knees shake with the effort, having had to not only expend more magic than usual in such a short period of time, but use more magic for the demonstration than she would usually have to create the liquid out of thin air in the first place, since there’s no viable water source around to manipulate.

Seeing this, a smirk crosses Janus’s face. Without warning, he points at Irina and bellows, “Guards, seize this witch!”

A flurry of commotion commences.

Before the guards can even so much as take a step in Irina’s direction, Hakua, Haru, Mikulia, and Karchess leap into action, surrounding Irina on all sides and protecting her, Karchess with one hand on the hilt of his sword and the other on the Vessel strapped to his belt. The guards hesitate, looking at one another with swords half-drawn.

“Brother, what is the meaning of this?” Martius questions, voice rising in confusion.

“Martius,” Janus says, tone icy, “order your retainer to stand down.”

Martius gulps at his brother’s commandeering tone, glancing between him and Karchess.

“Chessy, please…”

“Sorry, Tius, but no, I will not.” Karchess refuses, grip tightening on the handle of his sword. “I will not let the Great Witch be arrested. She is innocent.”

“Karchess, please, it’s alright.” Irina murmurs, voice feeble from exhaustion. “You don’t have to defend me like this.”

“Innocent?!” Janus thunders in disbelief, pounding a fist on the throne’s arm. “Because of her, the citizens of Beelzenia have been terrorised by an unexplainable curse, a man has willingly sold his soul to dark magic, one of the Five Dukes has been replaced without my knowing nor permission, Maylis has lost her maidenhood, and now,” he seethes, giving Martius a side-eyed glance, “my own brother is undermining my authority on account of being too much of a pushover to take charge of his guard dog.”

Sensing the guards closing in and Irina struggling to keep standing, Hakua bites her lip, makes a split-second decision—spins on her heel, picks Irina up bridal-style—and with a yell of “Haru, Mi-Mi, let’s go! Run for it!”, breaks out of the circle of guards and rushes for the doors, Haru and Mikulia following close behind her.

“Wha—men, after them!” Janus screeches, surging to his feet. “Don’t let them get away! I want them caught, dead or alive!” As the soldiers hurry to carry out his order, he slumps into his seat. “Accursed Netsuma woman, troublesome, dangerous…” Muttering under his breath, Janus scowls, “No wonder she fell in love with that evil man, birds of a feather as they are.”

“Excuse me?!” Cherubim pipes up, affronted. “My brother is not evil!”

“I don’t care if he is or isn’t,” brushing him off, Janus disinterestedly says, “the matter of the fact is that he was dealing in the dark arts and consorting with a Netsuma, plenty enough evidence to condemn him. It would be best for you to disown him completely, Duke Venomania, so as to not tarnish your family name.”

“No.” Surprisingly, it is Gumina who answers, eyes filled with defiance. “No, we will not. I will not allow Sateriasis to be remembered by history as a villain! We will not abandon his memory, just for you to use him as a scapegoat—”

“Then so be it, Lady Glassred.” Janus sneers, cutting her off. “I hereby strip your husband of his title as one of the Five Dukes, since it seems that the entire Venomania household can’t be reasoned with! Let this be a lesson to you both. You may thank me for being merciful, since as a devout follower of the Levin faith, I have more than enough reason to condemn you both for defending that sacrilegious being. He will rot in the Hellish Yard for eternity.”

“…Resorting to religion to threaten us? How underhanded, your majesty.” Cherubim slowly shakes his head, giving Janus a reproachful look. “At least the Angel was merciful enough to give Sati peace in death—I’m starting to wonder if the god we worship was the wrong choice. Come, Mina, let’s leave this hateful place.”

Rendered speechless, Janus watches as Cherubim and Gumina exit the chamber, before regaining his wits enough to shout, “Blasphemers! Heretics! Curse the lot of you!” Spending the next few minutes ranting and raving, the eventual empty-handed return of his soldiers sours his mood even further. Turning his attention to his siblings, he narrows his eyes in tranquil fury.

But before he can even open his mouth, Karchess moves to stand in front of them, taking a defensive stance. “You will not unjustly accuse my king and my queen, nor the princess, for things that are out of their control. Neither Martius nor Yufina need to explain for my actions, and as Maylis has said, she has been acting as she was because of a demonic being possessing her body.”

“Karchess, you don’t have to…” Both Martius and Maylis speak up, sharing a glance with each other, before trailing off.

Tapping the bejewelled branch tied to his belt, he continues, “Even if you don’t believe it, it has been proven to me that powerful beings capable of such things do exist. If you wish to maintain peaceful relations with Marlon, I advise you to let us return without raising a hand against us, your majesty. And, Maylis,” giving the princess a gentle smile, “you are welcome to join us back to Marlon, if you feel ill at ease here.”

Maylis startles, flustered. Then, taking a deep breath, she shakes her head. “Your offer is gracious, Count Crim, but I must decline. If Janus will not tolerate my presence, then I can simply stay with Baron Conchita and his wife until his temper cools.”

Having had the conversation entirely take place without his input, Janus practically explodes, “FINE! Fine! Have it your way, then. You idiots are all dismissed! Useless, good-for-nothing miscreants—” With a frustrated grunt, he rises to his feet and storms out of the audience chamber.

Giving Martius, Yufina, and Karchess one last wave goodbye, Maylis makes her way out as well, absently rubbing at her stomach with a conflicted smile on her face.

With just the three of them left in the room, Martius heaves a long-suffering sigh of relief, pressing his palm to his forehead.

“…Well, that’s that, I suppose.” Yufina says, shrugging. “I’ll be honest, Martie, if this is what’s going to happen every time we go on vacation, I’d rather we just stay at home.”

“I second that notion.” Karchess adds, patting Martius’s shoulder consolingly.

“Hm… with my agreement, that makes the decision unanimous.” Martius nods sagely, managing to crack a smile, one mirrored by Yufina and Karchess both. Then, expression turning serious, he addresses Karchess, “But, I’ve given it some thought, and… Chessy, Yuffy, listen.” A rueful smile twists his lips. “It’s been made clear to me, multiple times, that I really am unfit to be a ruler, so—like you said, Chessy, I think it’d be better if you became king in my stead.”

“…Tius, you can’t seriously believe that. I was under the influence of the curse, back then when I said that to you!” Karchess objects, frowning slightly.

“Oh, Martie, no… you’re a good, benevolent king! The people of Marlon love you, and so do we.” Yufina adds, crossing her hands over her heart.

“But what good is a useless king like me?” Self-deprecation evident in his tone, Martius continues, “I’ve allowed you to be put in harm’s way, Chessy, unwittingly or not, and because of that, I’ve made Yuffy suffer as well. I can’t even protect those dearest to me, much less my entire nation, especially not from my imperialistic family, while you, Karchess, even stood up to my brother’s wrath to protect that mage. Marlon will surely become nothing more than one of Beelzenia’s vassals ere long, if I remain on the throne! No, I’m not fit to be king. Not at all…”

Sharing a look of concern, Karchess and Yufina can only enfold Martius in a tight embrace as he stews in his thoughts, hoping that they can pull him out of the pit of misery he’s dangling himself above.

* * *

In the heart of a forest far away, but not too far—a golden-haired woman with eyes as blue as the morning sky sits by the roots of the biggest tree in the clearing.

Some distance away, hiding in the undergrowth, a bear, a crow, a chipmunk, and a robin watch her with mounting horror as she displays the damage done to her already-fragile psyche.

“Ohhh, Kiril won’t like this. He’s always so concerned whenever I get hurt, he’s such a softie!” She dreamily murmurs as she traces a fingertip over the scars lacing her arms, doing the same to the ones on her legs a minute later. “Oh well, accidents happen! I’ll just have to be more careful in the future.”

Then, drawing her knees to her chest, she hums a little lullaby half-forgotten, enjoying the sound of the bluebird perched on her shoulder chirping along with her.

“How mean of Irina, though!” She blurts out to nobody in particular, glaring at nothing. “First, she kills me, next she destroys Levianta, and then she has the audacity to still be alive after all that?! Ungrateful little sister—ummm, sister-in-law… it’s okay though, I’ll just punish her a bit, and then the three of us can be a happy family again!”

Her face falls.

“Oopsie, I forgot! Kiril isn’t here anymore, is he? He’s dead to the world, that’s right, I forgot, silly me.”

A giggle escapes her lips as she gives herself a knock on the head, twisting a lock of hair between her fingers.

“Ahhh, that’s okay, it’s okay. I can just resurrect him later, just like he did to me! I won’t do it with the Sin ark though, that’s too dangerous, and the dragon gods will probably get in my way. Phooey. I’ll just have to use my own special method, then.”

Slender fingers pet the bluebird’s bobbing head, the clockwork creature preening under her touch.

“All I have to do is to make more bluebirds, divide my soul up among them, and I can revive anyone I want! Have to be careful not to stretch myself out too thin across the flock, though. Don’t want to go mad, or lose my mind, or something. I could probably even bring back all the people of Levianta if I wanted to, ahaha. Hey, I bet using the Vessels would make it even easier for me! If I gather them all, will they grant my wish? I hope so!”

Pumping a fist in the air, the woman jumps to her feet and laughs as she twirls and spins in place, heedless of the fact that she’s disturbing the wildlife around her.

“Hear that, Kiril? I’ll make you proud of your dearly beloved!” She cheers, holding one hand to her heart as if taking a solemn vow. “I, Elluka Clockworker, promise to make Irina come to her senses, as well as bring you back from the grave, even if I’ll have to sacrifice the world in return, no matter what the gods say!”

The bluebird twitters, as if laughing.

The four animals hiding themselves from the woman’s eyes recoil from its harsh, mechanical sound.

“Then, we can finally get married, oooh, we can even have our wedding in this forest, blessed by Held! And then we’ll finally be a happy family, just the three of us! Wait for me, my beloved! I will definitely save you!”

* * *

**—The Notes of a Certain Sorceress—**

_A few years have passed since Sater—no, Cherubim’s death, and the unrest caused by the events now collectively known as the Venomania Incident has finally started to calm down._

_I have decided to return here, to Elphegort, after having served Marlon as their Court Mage all this time. I cannot express enough thanks to the King Marlon for granting me protection from Beelzenia’s witch hunt, and I am genuinely sad to have had to leave them, but leave I must._

_Speaking of, Karchess Crim—now Karchess Marlon, has proven himself an excellent king. Though there were some who expressed dissatisfaction at Martius abdicating the throne to him, those concerns were quickly dispelled by Yufina. She, cleverly in my opinion, used her status as the only rightful heir carrying the bloodline of the Marlon royal family to amass support for their decision, and Martius himself has willingly stepped down to become their chancellor instead. The three of them seem very happy with the way things are now._

_As for the Vessel of Heavenly Virtue, I have determined it to be the Vessel of Patience, that has found itself in Karchess’s possession, well. I have left it with him, and let things happen as they may. I have also instructed him on the importance of keeping it safe and out of the hands of those who could abuse its power, and he has promised me that it shall be passed down as a precious family heirloom, along with the duty to protect it._

_…Hopefully, that will be enough to prevent such things as have occurred with the Vessel of Chastity from happening again._

_On that note, I had several opportunities to catch some news regarding what happened to the rest of the people whose paths had intersected with mine, even if briefly, on my quest._

_Unfortunately, I have not heard any news of Lukana Octo, so I cannot say much about her current situation or whereabouts. Her house in Mystica is empty and her uncle’s shop in Lasaland is closed up, too. I hope she is doing well, wherever she is, for I do regard her fondly as a close friend. Perhaps she is travelling the world with those two friends of hers, Rajih Assad and Lilien Turner. Maybe we will meet again, someday._

_…Well, no more beating around the bush. Here I go._

_First is the former Duke of Asmodean and his lady, Cheru—no, Sateriasis Venomania and Gumina Glassred._

_Having had his prestigious title taken away from him, Sateriasis chose to make the best of things and took advantage of his newfound political freedom to let Cherubim, in death, keep the name he has used as his own during… well. That time. Perhaps it is his way of coping with his passing. Gumina has become a masterful painter, and has made a name for herself as the best portrait artist in the current world of the arts._

_More importantly, the two of them have founded a new sect of the Levin faith, one focused on the worship of the Angels instead of the twin dragon gods or the forest god. The Behemo sect, named after the lesser-known dragon god twin, is steadily gaining traction in Asmodean, though it is thoroughly reviled and persecuted as heresy elsewhere. A side effect of this new emerging religion is that people of Asmodean are now regarding Cherubim as a hero of sorts, a man who willingly gave up his life and soul to channel an Angel’s grace and bless the world with the Virtue of Chastity._

_…Though it is not far from the truth, I am unsure how to feel about that portrayal of him. He was simply a victim of circumstance who got carried away by his emotions and had far, far, far too much love, of all kinds, in his heart. Storge for Sateriasis, Philia for Gumina, Eros for Hakua—and Agape for the world around him as a whole._

_Perhaps even for… a foolish little witch who made all the wrong decisions and failed to save him from them._

_But I digress._

_Carol and Bruno, too, have recovered from their ordeals and now continue to faithfully serve the Venomania household. They have tied the knot, so to speak, and while Carol maintains her position as the household’s head retainer, I have heard that Bruno has formed a company called the Association, comprised of mostly the Almoga Mobarez but also accepting anyone willing to join, that aims to become a group of soldiers-and-servants-and-spies collectively working in an information network._

_All in all, it sounds very promising. I can see myself using their services in the future._

_…Last I heard, both Sateriasis and Gumina, as well as Bruno and Carol, are expecting a new addition each to the family very soon. I pray that their children will grow up happy and healthy, and not have to bear the weight of their ancestors’ sins._

_Next is Maylis Beelzenia._

_When it was discovered that she had become pregnant with Cherubim’s child, the imperial family hid this fact from the rest of the world, and tried to have it aborted in secret. But, from what I heard from Martius, she resisted that and carried it to term, whereupon she entrusted the baby to Baron Conchita and his wife once it became apparent that the imperials wouldn’t acknowledge this child as a member of the family._

_The baron and his wife, who had remained childless until then, graciously accepted it, and so publicly Maylis’s child was raised as their daughter._

_…I cannot claim to understand her thoughts, but I wonder if Maylis had actually wanted the child at all, or if something else influenced her decision. The fact that she forcefully took advantage of Cherubim’s weakness yet felt immensely guilty and full of regret almost immediately afterwards, is not normal by any means._

_There is a chance that she, too, has forged a contract with an Angel of Virtue, and that is the reason for her sudden change of heart, though as I have yet to meet her again in person, I cannot say for sure._

_There is one other woman who bore Cherubim’s child._

_Hakua Netsuma._

_…I have entrusted the Vessel of Chastity to her. She deserves at least that much. It wouldn’t be right for me to take one of the few last reminders of her love away from her._

_I met her again, as well as Haru and Mikulia, here, in Elphegort, just a few days before I settled down to gather my thoughts and write these notes. It seems that, after we parted ways and I left for Marlon, they had emigrated to this country to escape the forces of Beelzenia that are still chasing them down. Though Elphegort is known for their intolerance of the Netsuma clan, and treated as lesser for her gender besides, Hakua has managed to rise up above all the odds stacked against her and now makes a living as a newcomer civil officer in the Elphegort government._

_Currently, she is working for the betterment of women’s rights and to improve the public perception of her kind, both gender and race. I am proud to see how different she is from her old self, how confident she has become, no longer hiding behind feigned ignorance, though I have no doubt that part of it is because of Mikulia’s efforts to make her see the best in herself._

_Mikulia, bless her heart, has taken on the role of a sort of parental figure to the two sisters, despite being younger than Hakua by a considerable margin. Were it not for her age and her relative innocence, I would have believed her to be a proper mother in her own right._

_As it is now, when she is not taking turns with Haru to care for Hakua’s child in its mother’s absence, she works as a flower vendor in Calgaround, where they all now live together in one home. Mikulia may have even caught the eye of the lord of Calgaround himself, and there may be something between them, if what Haru said to me is true._

_…There is a nagging thought in the back of my head, telling me that I’ve forgotten something important about Mikulia. Something about magic-or-other. Ah well, if it’s important enough, then surely it’ll come back to me soon._

_Back to the matter at hand. Haru. I hope that girl is doing alright now. Even in this new life of theirs, she still seemed haunted and plagued by nightmares of the false Clockworker’s acts done in her body. I could not bear to see her so frightened and miserable, so I offered the only solution I could think of._

_To exchange our bodies using the “Swap Technique”._

_…She readily agreed to my proposal, perhaps seeing it as a permanent cure for her predicament, and so I, as well as her, ended up obtaining new bodies. There was some confusion at first, when Hakua and Mikulia arrived home to be greeted with a red-haired Netsuma, but soon enough they became as close as they had been before._

_I must admit that it is a bit strange to be inhabiting a body younger than the one I had, again made permanent through my soul’s agelessness. But my magic potential is just as latent as it was before, if a bit more unrefined due to my new youth. And perhaps having such a young appearance would prove an obstacle on my journey later on, but… eh, I will find a way._

_After all, there’s no point in dwelling on it any further. I will take the future as it arrives, one day at a time._

_Maylis and Hakua… their children each carries Cherubim’s blood. And as Cherubim had forged a contract with an Angel who had shown such malice like those affected by HER…_

_Since I had Tette accompanying me at the time, I asked her if she could sense any symptoms of HER in Hakua’s child at present, and was relieved when she replied in the negative. Still, I ought to remain on guard about that. I should also consult Held on the true nature of the Angels, in particular what the Angel of Chastity had meant about “becoming whole once more”._

_Perhaps… I should also ask him about the truth of the false Clockworker as well._

_I don’t know her—or his—or their true identity or motives, but according to what I’ve heard from Haru, there’s a possibility that they hold the same amount of magical power as me—or even greater, considering their apparent mastery over soul manipulation and ability to create lifelike clockwork creatures to do their bidding. I’ll have to keep an eye on their movements from now on._

_Clockworker… it can’t be who I think it is… right?_

* * *

#  [[ END OF ACT 1 ]](https://youtu.be/6iPCavKhBx8)

[> Astra Inclinant: Load Intermission](https://virtusmigratinvitium.000webhostapp.com/vnsegment.html) [ (click here for text-only version!)](https://virtusmigratinvitium.000webhostapp.com/textranscript.html)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this... took a LOT of effort omfg, huge huge HUGE thanks to houfuku for putting in their all in making the drawings and doing the coding stuff and to my wonderful wife for putting up with our crazy ideas and also that new years cake was absolutely delicious. wuv u, hanii
> 
> so, this is it. the end of another arc. honestly by around chapter 11 houfuku had already lost a lot of interest in the plot (tbh it was p slow going) and was pushing for a quick end so that we could move on to the next arc, but i... i couldnt leave cherubims story like that. we probablyyy... didnt handle this chapter as gracefully as we would have liked and therefore it definitely feels rushed, but. hey, i think we did pretty good for adapting an entire novel and turning it into an au. hou's just being a grumpy grump hehe (you did great dear! we just need to learn how to synchronize better ww)
> 
> this chapter is the most experimental thing ive ever done so far and i dont think we'll be putting in that much production effort for future chapters, but who knows? maybe inspiration and motivation and spite will strike houfuku again and ill just cluelessly follow along like the good cowriter that i am, hehe
> 
> well, thatsall i gotta say. thanks for reading and stickin with us so far and as always, kudos and comments are appreciated!!! seisaku, out!


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